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cTVIiller’s Prose 
and Verse 


Part English 

Part Pennsylvania German 




By' EDWIN C. MILLER^ 




COPYRIGHTED BY THE AUTHOR, 1924 
tALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


Searle & Bachman Co., Allentown, Pa. 










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J S z.j 
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©ClA7a23dO 


MILLER^S PROSE AND VERSE 


PART ENGLISH 


PART PENNSYLVANIA GERMAN 





TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Part I 

Page 

Preface.7 

In the Berks County Hills .11 

The Brook . 12 

Twilight in the Village . 14 

Morning .16 

The Village as it was. 17 

The Woods. 21 

The Apple Tree..22 

The Cold Spring .23 

Willie Cloverfield .25 

Life .33 

In the Wilds of Berks County.35 

Philosophy of a Tramp.40 

Camp Crane . 42 

Humans from the Viewpoint of Birds.45 

The Lehigh Mountain .. 51 

The Butterfly . 53 

A Mountain Jewel .55 

The Deserted Homestead .56 

The Rooster and The Gander. 58 

The Journey on Earth .63 

The Alarm Clock . 64 

Autumn .65 

Old King Tut.66 





























TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Part II 

IN PENNSYLVANIA GERMAN 

Page 

En Shpiel Die Shtory —Der Jaeger un der Bauer.69 

Es Shpiel von Bauer un Jaeger.72 

Der Rot Loeb .83 

Der Huns John .88 

Der‘‘Brille Schmidt” . 90 

Der Bine uf ’n Berig . 95 

Der Freddie Gehweider.98 

Die County Fair .99 

Die Insche .103 

Welskorn . 104 

Die Schule Kinner .108 

Die Shpek-maus un die Keriche-maus.110 

Die Aide Leit .115 

N Kald Frieyohr .118 

Der Yokel J. Graw .120 

Der Aid Keshte-baum .122 

Die Drechder-blum .124 

Die Movies .125 

Cedar Beach.126 

Der Professor Kratzkop von Bassum Dhal .128 

Die Ring Sei .131 

Die Keshte-Gais .135 

Drei-eckiche Oier .140 

En Professor Sei Compound .146 

Der Felse uf ’n Berig .149 





























PREFACE 


The author of this work has attempted to furnish his readers 
a book in Penna. German, using the sound of the German 
letters in spelling. 

However, in words derived from the English language, the 
letters retain their original sound. 


8 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


In comparing Penna. German with High German, we find 
in certain words a shade or difference in sound. 

As an explanation and in order to express Penna. German in 
its true form the author has substituted the letters giving the 
required sound. 

As an example, wo, in German, is spelled wu, in Penna. 
German, kom, kum, etc. 

In many cases b, in the middle of a word changes to w, as 
lebe, lewe, Leber, Lewer, etc. 

The dipthong ei, changes to ai, as heis, hais, Bein, Bai’. 

In certain cases k, has the sound of g, as in klein glai’. 

In most words ending in n, or en, mostly prevalent in verbs, 
the n, is silent and has been omitted, as schlagen, schlage. 

It may truthfully be said that Penna. German is free from 
useless letters. If the object of a language is to express our 
thoughts, it may be considered an improvement. 

All silent letters, or sounds of invisible letters have been 
eliminated. In both English and German we have many letters 
that are obsolete. The h, and sh sound are found frequently, 
in invisible letters in English; as in sure, attention, etc. 

In German words like bist, stand, just, the sh sound is elimi¬ 
nated. 

In Swiss German, same as in Penna. German sh is sounded, 
and in Penna. German is spelled bisht, shtand, jusht. 

To write Penna. German as a comparison with High German 
would require a copious use of apostrophes. As most languages 
need pruning of useless letters, the author offers Penna. German 
as an illustration of what could be accomplished with High 
German. 

Penna. German has its parts of speech and its declensions all 
in its own particular style, and is not a jumble of words of 
different languages, as many uneducated persons in languages 
believe. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


9 


In this work it is not the purpose of the author to dwell on 
the orthography of Penna. German, but merely to serve as a 
guide to the reader and to those who are familiar with High Ger¬ 
man, but not being familiar with Penna. German may find an 
obstacle in the construction or meaning of certain words. Some 
of its words are from the old High German. 

In conclusion will say that every language to be understood 
must be studied. 

A language can be used or abused. The power of expression 
in Penna. German depends on the grammatical construction of 
its words and sentences, and on natural talent and ability 
whether used in speaking or in writing. 


THE AUTHOR. 




MILLER^S PROSE AND VERSE 


11 


IN THE BERKS CO. HILLS 

Among the rugged hills, 

In the County of Berks, 

In the green meadows 
Where the lone snipe lurks 
The fire-flies endeavor 
To illumine the night. 

And flash their bright jewels. 
In the summer twilight. 



12 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


THE BROOK 

A clear bubbling spring, 

As the mother and source, 

Of two babbling brooks. 

As they flow in their course. 

Over stony paths. 

Thru shady vales, 

In all the seasons 
Pure water never fails. 

The brooks hasten on 
And endeavor to fill. 

One the thirsty Lehigh, 

The other Schuylkill. 

With sparkling water. 

From the Berks County hill 
One side a brook follows 
The other beyond 
Yet both meet again. 

In the great silent Pond. 

Thru the meadow flows the murmuring brook. 

Where boys fished with line and hook. 

The bushes along the bank afforded a shady retreat. 

As we laid in the shade, and under the bank with caution peeped. 
To watch the hungry fishes fight 
Trying to get a little bite. 

The biggest fish would always win. 

They were the ones, we would pull in. 

The smaller fish would warily nibble. 

They seemed greatly to relish the fare. 

But soon they had my hook laid bare. 

So I covered the hook with bait. 

And I had not long to wait. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


13 


A hungry big fish in the brook, 

Spied little fishes at the hook; 

From under the bank, he suddenly darted. 

The smaller fish how they were startled. 

When he wiggled his body in his might. 

And quickly brushed them all aside. 

Greedily the bait he swallowed like all his sort, 

A jazzing fish was my reward. 

What a joy to my keen appetite. 

When eaten after being in butter fried. 

The fish then seemed of fair size. 

Is it only the vision of my eyes. 

That makes them now seem very small. 

And the brook so narrow, as if it had been squeezed. 
Too narrow to hold the fish on which we had our feast. 



14 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


TWILIGHT IN THE VILLAGE 

A village nestles peacefully among the green. 

When a day in summer is drawing to a close, 

From the meadow comes a fragrance of new mown hay, 
The bee returns from fields of clever. 

And men from their labor enjoy sweet repose. 

The rays of the sun, their shimmering dance have ceased. 
The ever lengthening shadows point to the east. 

The sun tells man not the darkness to fear. 

And points in the direction where again she’ll appear. 

It is the end of a warm summer day. 

Slowly the sun withdraws her last slanting ray, 

And from behind the mountain takes one last peep, 

Soon the weary village will be asleep. 

The twittering swallows circle above the house. 

And catch the gnats with open mouth. 

Then suddenly in the chimney dive 
Like honey-laden bees in a hive. 

When the sun has met the western hills. 

And vanished far beyond. 

And the swallows in the chimney roost 
The Bat is on the hunt. 

When the twinkling stars above with their light. 

And the fire-flies below 
In the meadows at night. 

Endeavor to keep the dark world bright. 

Musical creatures with the gift of song, 

Furnish music the lovely night long, 

Frcm the dark fragrant meadow and watery bogs 
Sings the weird chorus of a thousand frogs. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


15 


Like the distant echo of myriad souls, 
Communicating in another world, 

The melancholy sound perturbs the ear. 

When lonely souls the night frogs hear. 

From the dark shadowy woods. 

In the silent night. 

Comes a lonely voice of a bird; 

It is the mysterious whip-poor-will. 

For ages men have heard. 

Before white men tread the virgin soil. 

And turned the woods to fields. 

In the dark silent woods the bird then dwelt. 
That no more a living yields. 

The woods are gone, the bird is lone. 

The night air he will fill. 

The message that comes from hill and vale. 

Is always “Whip-poor-Will.” 



16 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


MORNING 

When the cricket by the roadside in the weed, 
No more sounds his rythmical beat, 

And the musical chorus has ended its song. 
The night is approaching the rising sun. 

Men and beasts are at rest. 

But, will rise again refreshed; 

Down cast fields of drooping grain. 

Beaten down by wind and rain. 

Like those who heavy burdens bear. 

In the sunshine rise and breathe the air. 

All those whom the sunshine meet. 

Rise again on their feet. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


17 


THE VILLAGE AS IT WAS 

Time has not changed the country village name, 
But the quiet village is not now the same 
Among the hills in Berks. 

Its fame and glory long has passed, 

History proves fame cannot last. 

Nations, mortals, and cities men say. 

Have their period of growth and decay. 

Along the winding country road 
May still be seen the hopping toad. 

But where are the fragrant locust trees. 

Whose fragrance emanated the country breeze. 
And eased the traveller up the hill 
Where on top is the old school house still. 

The time-worn scarred school-house red, 

From which my school-mates all have fled. 

I long to climb that steeple once more. 

When school boys many years before. 

In the steeple they would climb, 

And leave in the dome the mark of time. 

There we found the name and date. 

Years before a teacher had made. 

Besides that learned teacher’s name. 

Our name and date we left the same. 

Along the peaceful village street. 

All has changed whatever I meet. 

There is a spot—how it has altered. 

To change its beauty man has not faltered; 

But the picture that is in the mind 
Man can not change or find. 

The white paling fence no more we see. 
Underneath the old black-cherry tree. 



18 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


With its snowy blossoms white, 

Surely was an elegant sight: 

A grassy bank was a reclining seat. 

As I inhaled a fragrance rare and sweet, 

And listened to the buzzing bee 
Gathering honey in the tree. 

The fence was white-washed in the spring. 

But is replaced by wire thin. 

The old homestead is no more the same. 

The ownership has changed in name. 

In the meadow croaked the bull-frog in the spring 
To bring greetings from the approach of spring. 

On a warm summer night he’d make a noise, 

Like a singer with a deep bass voice. 

The ever green spruce tree still is there, 

To withstand the blast of the cold winter air. 

The stronger the wind blows the higher he’ll shriek. 
Till his voice is pitifully weak; 

The winds heart softens, and mercifully relieves. 
The tortured trembling evergreen leaves. 

As the fury of the winds abate. 

The tree is relieved from the ague. 

But still low and mournfully moans. 

The wind again will torture his cones. 

Many a cold stormy winter night. 

The moaning tree in the yard outside. 

Faced the cold and stormy weather. 

While men slept in a bed of feather. 

In Summer the grassy meadows with its weeds. 

Was crossed by a path to a spring that leads. 

Thru a land of jewels glistening in the sun. 
Morning passed and plucked every one. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


19 


I approach the old rusty rail-road track, 

Its commerce now is very slack. 

The wharf once loaded with valuable ore, 

Grass and moss now cover the floor. 

No more the voices of men greet the ear, 

Or the sound of the shovel do we hear. 

Where is that burly teamster with his black-snake whip, 
Often he’d stop at the hotel for a sip. 

He was able master of a team of four. 

Loaded with heavy iron ore. 

Picture the scenes as they were of yore 
That passed from view forevermore. 

The horses no more follow the rut. 

And turn from the road of stone and mud. 

They are near their journey’s end. 

And before the team is to the mines send. 

Approach the wharf with its pile of ore. 

Where they pull as never before. 

The burl}^ teamster how he roared, 

He cracks his whip with a loud report. 

The horses pull and how they suort. 

To pull the load on the pile so short. 

The teamster, guides them close to the ledge. 

You’d tremble in fear they’d go over the edge. 

The horses now are relieved of their load. 

To the mines in ruts they follow the road. 

Their heaving chests like bellows blow, 

With steaming nostrils to the mines they go. 



20 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Where is the old fashioned wheezy engine, 

That to the quiet village attracted attention, 

Train-loads of ore it carried away. 

And to the village proclaimed the time of day. 

To the boys it was an object of wonder and might, 

I long once more on that cow-catcher to ride. 

In those days the engine you’d see, 

A classy dignified name had she. 

Where is now that old breezy Montana, 

With her grimy black bandana, 

So roomy it furnished a brakeman’s seat. 

Airy comfortable and neat. 

The seat you’d find at the end of the tender. 

In front of the engine a large wooden fender. 

Around her body w^ere yellow brass bands. 

Kept bright by the engineer’s watchful hands. 

The engine was then an object of pride. 

The engineer loved to in her ride. 

Where is the areal, named by boys “Little Witch.’’ 

Perhaps she lies somewhere in a ditch. 

She was built not for strength but for speed. 

With a cow on the track it was better for both to take heed. 
The engine now that visits the village. 

Looks like one who is there for pillage. 

Her voice is deep hollow and gruff. 

Like one who is very rough; 

But what is her crime, what is her shame. 

That she has forfeited her name. 

And like a prisoner in a cell. 

Is numbered and ordered by bell. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


21 


THE WOODS 

In the woods near the railroad track, 

We gathered chestnuts in a sack; 

The trees we bombarded with stone and stick, 
To release the chestnuts we would pick. 

In the cool and windy fall 
Underneath the trees so tall. 

In the warm summer time. 

In the shady woods so fine. 

Across the brook a dam we made. 

Where we bathed in the shade. 

Along the bank on a smooth tree. 

For many years our names you’d see; 

Cut neatly in the green bark. 

With a jack-knife dear and sharp; 

As the tree attained its size, 

I watched the tree with eager eyes; 

To see how my name had spread. 

On the tree that was my pet. 

For years I wandered in western land. 

When I returned some cruel hand, 

Al^s, my beloved tree laid low: 

To the tree and me it was a blow. 

A huge saw mill one early morn. 

Like cattle in a field of corn. 

The shady woods laid waste. 

And with the trees, Cain it raised. 

Now in those chestnut trees so dear. 

No more the squirrel do I hear: 

As a chatting sound he made. 

Calling loudly to his mate. 

The stumps have not a nut to give. 

So he’ll over winter live. 



22 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


THE APPLE TREE 

Near the woods was the old apple tree, 

There the family cow would be, Eating apples—that she found 
Had fallen from the tree on the ground. 

How the cow her tail would flourish. 

To chase the flies her body did nourish. 

In persistence the flies could not be beat. 

And to escape the flies and burning heat, 

She’d go on a hasty stampede. 

Where I could not follow in bare feet. 

Thru bushes with thorns long and sharp. 

On my legs were many a mark. 

The wild has taken possession of the field. 

No more pasturage now it’ll yield. 

A fallen trunk on the ground. 

Neglected decaying all year round. 

Among bramble-bushes in a maze. 

Where he lived his fruitful days. 

Forlorn, forgotten, the apple tree lies. 

Ere long in mind the memory dies. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


23 


THE COLD SPRING 

Among the green hills, 

Where I lived when a boy, 

There is a cold spring. 

Overflowing with joy; 

A cold stream flows. 

In the day and the night. 

From that old rusty pipe 
In the grassy hillside. 

Sparkling and clear. 

It flows on the ground, 

A sweet purer stream 
Can nowhere be found; 

In the fragrant wild wood 
The wild birds sing. 

And join in the chorus. 

With the babbling spring. 

Wandering in the west 
Where the country is dry, 

I drank western water 
With a crave and a sigh; 

As my thoughts flew away 
And to the east took flight. 

To the little spring flowing 
From the hill-side. 

Many years have gone by. 

To the spring I returned; 

Ripe in experience 

With many lessons learned. 

When I drew near the spring 
A sparkling stream, I could see; 

In a familiar sound. 

The spring welcomed me. 



24 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


At the cool shady spring, 

Friends that I met, 

And the sweet happy moments, 

I shall not forget. 

As I wander thru life 
Full of toil and care, 

More peace and content. 

Can’t be found any where; 

Then to sit by the spring 
With old friends by your side, 

And converse with the spring. 

Babbling at the hill-side. 

Many a miner on his way. 

Weary with toil at the end of day. 

With measured steps walked the tie. 

Eagerly toward the spring drew nigh. 

The sparkling water then he drank. 

Flowing from the grassy bank. 

He lingered and refreshment found. 

Then resumed his journey homeward bound. 

Between the weeds the ties decay 
Of the unused abandoned railway. 

The rails are dull and covered with rust; 
The old time miners have gone to dust. 

Of all the drinks man has made. 

Some in the open, some in the shade. 

Of sweet drinks you’ll soon have your fill; 
Some drinks make you—forever still. 

Other drfnks will make you reel; 

But if you wish to happy feel. 

Health and joy that’s the thing. 

Drink plenty water from 
The little cold spring. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


25 


WILLIE CLOVERFIELD 

Willie Cloverfield before reaching his teens, lived in the coun¬ 
try, and with his playmates enjoyed the pleasures of country 
life in his boy hood-days. 

It was in the days before the moVies came into existence, 
and the automobile was yet a dream. 

Country life affords various kinds of amusement, dear to a 
boy’s heart, but where is the boy that cares not for snow or ice 
in winter. Coasting and skating are enjoyed by boys living in 
the city or in the co\mtry. 

When the chilly winds of November were blowing, school¬ 
days had arrived and Willie was attending the primary grade of 
a country school. 

Every morning on arising he would look out his bed-room 
window over the meadow, expecting to see snow that perhaps 
had fallen during the night. Another trying period in Willie’s 
life was the early spring. In the early part of April school days 
were over, and he and his playmates waited patiently with visions 
of millponds and swimming-holes under sunny skies. 

Soon after the bluebird sang his first note, and the sun was 
shining brightly with the thermometer still quite low, the boys 
believed cold weather to be only imagination. They discarded 
their shoes and stockings and ran about barefooted. However, 
to their disappointment, their parents were cofiberned regarding 
their health, and it was only their fear that prevented the boys 
from going about unshod. 

It was not long before warmer days arrived. 

Soon the boys could be seen wandering about in the fields and 
meadows discovering strange, and beautiful flowers, or hunting 
wild straw berries growing among the tall grass, about fences. 



26 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


There were wild-lilies, lady-slippers, pansies, forget-me-nots 
and other varieties of wild flowers beautiful but nameless to 
them when discovered for the first time in their childhood. 

In the woods were the fragrant arbutus, laurel and other 
strange blossoms. 

Sometimes a turtle would slowly be making its way thru 
the grass, but upon touching would draw the head and feet in 
the shell and lock up the house. 

Willie would always lift the turtle and look on the underside 
of the shell to see initials or a date carved on the shell as sometimes 
happens. 

As a rule in those days the country boy had few toys and Willie 
was not an exception. 

By exercising a little ingenuity, nature in the bumble-bee 
furnished one of the best toys for the boys that could be found. 
When the trees were in bloom and the boys heard the buzzing 
of the bumble-bee, they knew the time had arrived to go fishing 
by the brook in the meadow. 

It was also bumble-bee time. They loved to hear him buzz, 
but had practical ideas concerning bumble-bees. Tied to a 
thread, he became a sort of a toy balloon or kite, and by un¬ 
winding the spool was given as much freedom as desired. 

When tired or walking, he at once became a bear led by a 
chain, and many times the imaginary bear climbed a pole. 

Now who the originator was of this idea no one can positively 
state. It was customary for some families to attend the county 
fair, and bring home toy balloons for their children in the village. 

One time a traveller passing through the neighborhood, 
with a tame bear by a chain, compelled the bear to climb a flag 
pole at the village tavern. This act and other antics brought 
intense delight and amusement to the children in the village. 

Possibly these incidents were accountable for the slavery of 
the bumble-bee. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


27 


While a bumble-bee attached to a thread made a desirable 
toy; catching the toy is another story. 

Willie learned painfully as my story will prove, that there 
are two kinds of bumble bees. They were classified as schwartz 
kop and weisskop bumble-bees so named from the appearance. 

Men of learning generally use Latin names in classifying 
insects, but the mother tongue served the purpose just as well. 

Had the black-head bumble-bee been given any other name, 
the pain of his sting would never be lessened. 

On account of this undesirable quality, the stocks of the 
black-head were low in fact worthless, while the stocks of the 
white-head bumble-bee brought on the market such a valuable 
possession as a fish hook, Jews-harp, Sling-shot, and articles 
highly prized by a boy. 

On the sunny side of the village school-house, outside under 
the windows sills, the bumble-bees were seen making their homes. 

Their holes extended about an inth vertically in the soft 
wood, then branched off sideways about five inches. 

The question was how to make the bumble-bee leave his 
home. It was a difficult task to reach him with a stick, and to 
injure him was out of the question. 

An injured bumble-bee was of no more use to them, than an 
air-plane with broken wings is to an aviator. 

But the boys learned how to hunt bumble-bees. They 
started a bombardment. By striking heavily with a heavy 
stick against the window sill, the bumble-bee became shell¬ 
shocked, and when he could not bear the jarring any longer, 
flew from his hole, and was immediately knocked down with a 
hat by a waiting youngster. 

While the bumble-bee was half stunned it was an easy 
matter to determine whether he belonged to the white-head 
family. 



28 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


If a white-head was in captivity, a loop in a thread was passed 
around the waist or slender part of his body and tied. A young¬ 
ster was then the happy possessor of a pet in which he received 
as much joy and satisfaction as the owner of a pedigreed dog, 
when walking along leading his dog by a chain. But before 
going into the bumble-bee business, Willie had to learn his pain¬ 
ful lesson. While there is no rose without a thorn he found there 
was also no bumble-bee for him without a sting. 

He was aware that a certain species had a powerful sting 
and had an impression it belonged to the black-head family. 
An older mischievous boy told him the sting was in the white- 
head family. One fine day in Spring while the door was open a 
bumble-bee found his way into the house. 

Not being able to locate an exit, he was desperately trying to 
make his way through the window-pane. 

Seeing the predicament of the bumble-bee, Willie approached 
with visions of a bumble-bee by a thread. With an open hand 
he stealthily drew nearer and before striking or grabbing 
hesitated only long enough to learn to his satisfaction that it was 
one of the black-head family. 

Had not his friend told him the black-heads were harmless? 
Yes, Relyin;^ 6n his word he quickly but gently grabbed the bee, 
but even more quickly left him free. How he was stung! 

Disappointment and pain were the sensations, and he could 
never, overcome the distrust he felt, toward the older boy. 
Willie could never see the humorous part of the situation, and 
could not understand why he should be so painfully deceived by 
one who pretended to be a friend. 

In the early part of life a year seems to be a long time, but 
for Willie summer had hardly begun before the cool winds of 
autumn began to blow and the fishing and swimming days were 
gone for the rest of the season. But Autumn was not without 
its compensation. The woods abounded with chestnut. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


29 


hickory, and butternut trees, and the boys were busy picking 
nuts for the winter during Saturdays when they were not attend¬ 
ing school. 

The mines were always an object of curiosity to the boys. 
The odor of tallow candles and burned fuse seemed to fascinate 
them. There was that old dark tunnel that led to the heart of a 
mountain to be explored. 

To satisfy their curiosity, one winter Sunday while the snow 
was melting on the ground, Willie and one of his pals trudged 
thru the snow to explore the mine. 

A narrow-gauged track in the tunnel led to the interior 
workings of the mine. For several yards the entrance was pro¬ 
tected by heavy timbers, but soon the boys entered the space 
blasted out of solid rock. Here they stopped for a moment to 
examine their - surroundings. All was silent save the sound of 
dripping water, and the hollow echo of their voices when they 
spoke. This water was the source of a small stream flowing from 
the tunnel along the track. 

The light of the entrance seemed some distance away, only 
appeared much smaller. The boys decided to go further. Push¬ 
ing a mine truck ahead of them, they now passed a curve in the 
tunnel. Before passing this curve the entrance in the distance 
still was visible; but now they were in pitch darkness without a 
ray of day-light. They pushed on some distance and reached a 
space flooded with daylight. Not knowing from whence the 
light came they looked about to discover its source and found 
it to be the opening of a shaft high above their heads. 

At last their curiosity was satisfied, and they began to return 
in the direction in which they came by following the truck while 
pushing it out of the tunnel. 

Their arrival at home found them to their dismay with 
soaking wet shoes and stockings. Fearing the wrath of their 
parents the boys decided to take refuge in the school-house in 



30 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


order to dry their wearing apparel. By crawling through the 
open grating in the rear wall and opening a trap door in a clothes 
closet, gained entrance to the building. 

In the centre of the room was the old-fashioned coal stove. 
Willie and his pal began to shake the grate and regulate the draft 
and before long the old stove was wearing red cheeks. They pulled 
off their shoes and stockings and placed them near the hot stove 
to dry. In the meantime the boys were amusing themselves by 
writing on the black-board. After a time they returned to pull 
on their shoes and stockings, and were congratulating them¬ 
selves on their cleverness, when Willie remarked to his companion 
his shoes felt hard and inflexible. Surely so they were. By 
placing the shoes too near the stove the leather became brittle, 
and the next day the boys needed a new pair of shoes. 

In the old school-house in the primary grade the teacher 
taught in English, to speak English, and write English, but most 
of the pupils understood very little in a language outside their 
mother tongue. When the teacher said “Bound Pennsylvania” 
the pupils repeated the words “Bound Pennsylvania.” 

When the teacher asked one of the pupils to repeat the sen¬ 
tence. The cat sits by the fire. The pupils would say, “The 
cat sits on the fire.” without realizing the difference in posi¬ 
tion the words, at and on, brought the cat. 

There were daily drills in pronunciation. Instead of saying 
dis, dose, and dat, the teacher was demonstrating by placing the 
tongue between the front teeth, how to produce the th sound 
in saying this, those and that. Willie however, could never 
understand why anyone wished to speak when biting the tongue 
at the same time. 

Yet with all the handicap of studying lessons in a new tongue, 
and with all our boasted educational system, it is a question 
whether the country schools produce better or as well educated 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


31 


pupils today than twenty years ago, referring to pupils in the 
lower grades. Comparing with the number of pupils there are 
few who receive the benefits of a high school education. 

The school Willie Cloverfield attended was a two story 
building, graded primary and grammar. In the grammar 
school pupils that reached the age of 16 or 17 years were studying 
Algebra, Civil Government, Literature, along with the other 
common branches. 

There are successful doctors, ministers, and business men 
living today who, received their early training and laid the 
foundation of their education in this country grammar school. 

Today the school is vacant, only one grade being taught. 
The boys in this school had a keen sense of humor. They derived 
keen pleasure by showing the uninitiated how to see the stars 
in the daytime. This method was demonstrated by placing a 
coat over the victim’s head and having him look thru the sleeve 
toward the sky. At the proper moment some one would then 
pour a cup of water thru the sleeve. The wet face of the victim 
produced peals of laughter from his companions. 

Another favorite amusement was “mesmerism”. To mes¬ 
merize a pupil it was only necessary to blindfold the subject. 
He was then told to pass a finger in a circle around the bottom 
of a glass that had been previously wetted with ink. It was then 
required to pass his finger across his forehead and down his 
cheeks. He was now ready to have the blind removed from his 
eyes, and to behold his inky face in a mirror. The expression 
on his face caused keen delight. 

Every day in life should be a school day, and for many of us 
it is, only we cannot devote as much time to the study of books 
as in our youthful years. In the game of life we are constantly 
brought in situations that requires our judgment and skill to 
overcome. By doing so we gain in knowledge. Now when 
Willie Cloverfield reached his eighteenth year, he was a young 




32 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


man with a fair education, but was unfitted to do anything 
specially in any particular line of work. His school days in the 
quiet village were gone. It was his fate to leave the hills, the 
home of his ancestors and struggle with the world for a living. 

One thing was in his favor, he had a strong body and was able 
to do manual labor. When he left the hills for the city, he found 
in every occupation were foreigners from almost every country 
in Europe. Even common labor was monopolized by foreign 
workmen under a foreign foreman. At big industrial plants 
the usual questions asked at the employment window were. 
What can you do? How much experience have you had? Na¬ 
tionality? Many times Willie was turned away by being told, 
“We only want experienced men.” The works were filled with 
men from Europe but he was not given an opportunity in this 
land of opportunity. 

Since everywhere he went and sought employment, employers 
accepted only men with experience, the question for him was how 
to get the experience. But that is another story. 

He is now middle-aged with many kinds of experiences. 
He has never forgotten the old school-house of his child-hood 
days. 

One day he decided to visit the school. It was the noon hour 
the pupils on the play ground were surprised to see a stranger 
walk to the windows and look under the window sills. He then 
went in the building and had a few words with the teacher. 
It was Willie Cloverfield returning after many years absence. 

He found the old stove replaced by a modern system of heat¬ 
ing, but the holes in the window sills are still there where he and 
his pals bombarded the bumble-bees many years ago. 

When the bell rang calling the school in session to Willie’s 
ear it brought memories of the long ago, and as the children 
rushed in the building from the playground Willie slowly walked 
away in an opposite direction. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


LIFE 

Our senses are five millers who bring, 

Their scattered gr^in to grind; 

We are the owners of the mill, 

We call the mysterious mind. 

Sorrow, joy, love and hate. 

In thoughts pass thru the mill-race gate. 

The grist we grind and make the meal. 

Is good or bad it’s how we feel. 

The mysteries of life men investigate. 

With a light that’s dim. 

Progress we have painfully made. 

Thru the grinding din. 

The senses can not comprehend 
The origin of life, and less the end. 

The mill is not for stones to grind, 

A crusher needs the mysterious mind. 

The roaring of battle and the crash of thunder. 
Sweet songs of birds, and music are a wonder. 

Yet all the sounds that we hear. 

Are only a tickle in the ear. 

Without the ear sound would not be. 

Life would be less abundantly. 

Wish not for an eye, with a larger range. 

Monsters you’d see grotesque and strange. 

Had we an eye that enlarged a germ to a bee, 

A wonderful world we then would see, 

A world obscured and mercifully small. 

That man has never beheld at all. 

Gnawing, life-sapping monsters, are a shocking sight. 
Merciful would be, a death from fright. 




34 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


But other worlds it would bring so near, 

Tiny stars would like moons appear, 

It would be a most wonderful sight. 

To gaze toward heaven in the night. 

How it would make this world so bright. 

Perhaps there would not be any night. 

Is the race still partly blind. 

Is darkness only in the mind? 

Where will I the answer find. 

The infinite Universe is immense, 

And yet too small for us to sense. 

Men strive to enlarge that bright beaming star. 
That shines on us from afar. 

Here we must struggle and worry for a while. 
To keep a hunk of clay alive. 

When from bondage, release draws near. 

We shed our burden and disappear. 

And to an other land we go, 

Trusting life’s mysteries we shall know. 



35 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


IN THE WILDS OF BERKS COUNTY. 

In the mountains of Berks County, near the boundary of 
Lehigh, years ago was a clearing in the woods comprising about 
four acres. 

It is situated near historical abandoned ore mines at the apex 
where two mountains ranges meet and is known as the Gap. 

The clearing has been growing smaller year by year until 
today it is again claimed by the wilderness. It is covered with an 
undergrowth of weeds and thorny bushes that harass all tres¬ 
passers with a vengeance. 

Here a settler with his family struggled in the wilderness 
many years ago. There is no record of any descendants, and 
the family history is forgotten. Their history lies buried in the 
soil. All that remains besides the clearing are two graves with 
rough unfinished stones as they came from the woods and with 
out any inscription, marking the last re&ting place of these early 
pioneers. 

Tradition handed down to the younger generation the name 
of this place as “Somsels’ bletzel.” From the name of the place 
one may surmise the name of the family that occupied this plot 
was Somsel. 

Altho a small place it is not necessary to stretch the imagina¬ 
tion in realizing the amount of labor expended in clearing a tract 
of that size in a wilderness of virgin forest. 

There were trees to be felled, a log cabin to build, then the daily 
struggle with stumps, roots and rocks from sunrise to sunset. 
In the early history of our country, life meant a daily struggle to 
clear the land or to face starvation. 

When at last the settler succeeded in making a garden spot 
of the wilderness and gazed over his fruitful little place, he ex¬ 
perienced the pride of ownership and the joy and satisfaction 
of honest toil well rewarded. 




36 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


In winter the settler was probably sitting by the fireside in 
the evenings while his mate was busy with the spinning-wheel. 
His plot of ground with a few domestic animals comprised all his 
earthly possessions. It was a life of freedom, contentment, and 
independence. 

The early pioneers not knowing anything of the comforts 
and luxuries of modern times were content with their lot. 

Health and hardihood which they possessed were the main 
requisites for happiness. 

Not far from the clearing is a high boulder. However, 
contented a life may be, when surrounded by woods in a clear¬ 
ing creates a desire to see more of the world. 

Very likely he climbed the high boulder and above the tree 
tops facing the rising sun, gazed over the wooded valley beneath, 
Facing toward the north-west, below as far as the eye can see 
are long stretches of farming lands, divided into fields, while the 
landscape is dotted wdth dwellings of various shapes and colors. 
Far in the background where earth and sky seem to meet is a 
long band of blue. It is the Blue mountains in the distance. 

It is natural to believe that the settler and his wife spent 
many hours together on this rock in the summer evening resting 
from their daily toil, enjoying the scenery and listening to the 
voices of nature coming from the woods. 

While sitting there in the evening shadows, they could see 
the moon rising above the tree-tops. 

In the distance below was the dark wooded valley and above 
the bright starry heavens. In the dark valley below gleams a 
light. It is the light of an other settler on a farm. There is not 
a sound to break the stillness of the night, except the far-off cry 
of the whip-poor-will or the weird noise of the night frogs faintly 
coming from the dark valley below. 

Likely on this rock while listening to the voices coming from 
the woods mingled with the despairing mournful cry of the night 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


37 


owl, he meditated on the mysteries of nature and the problems 
of life. 

Here at all times he had a greater perspective of life and the 
world. Naturally when his last days on earth were approaching 
and the time came for him to mingle his body with the elements 
it was his desire to be buried near the rock. There is where his 
lonely forgotten grave is today, in the wilds, among the rocks 
and bushes on the highest point of land above the surrounding 
country. 

Another resting place for a member of the family is toward 
the east end of the c’earing where years ago a path led thru the 
woods to the clearing. At the present time the path is overgrown 
and some where in the wilds lies all that remains of the Somsels 
lone and forgotten to the world. 

But the Somsels had not lived in vain. Many years later the 
benefits of their toil expended on the clearing were reaped long 
after the owners disappeared. 

The clearing for years became a free pasturage for the family 
cows of the villagers. The way to the clearing led thru a wind¬ 
ing stony lane, with shady trees along the fences where the 
morning glory vines were entwined along the way. In the 
early summer morn when the sun shone brightly and the dew was 
on the grass, the children of the village drove the family cows to 
pasture thru this lane. After leaving the lane they entered a 
road thru the woods, but as they approached the base of the 
mountain the way led up a narrow pathway which they followed 
to the clearing. 

In the woods the birds were singing, the squirrels were chat¬ 
tering and all creatures seemed too busy and full of life to notice 
the intrusion of their homes. 

Along the way the pink whip-poor will blossoms were perfum¬ 
ing the fresh pure morning air with their fragrance. 



38 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


The air from the luxurious green woods seemed to impart 
strength and life with every breath. 

To step from the pathway to gather the wild flowers was not 
without its dangers. 

There were thorns and chestnut burrs strewn in the woods, 
and along the. path. To step in one was painful and the offender 
often most difihcult to extract. 

Thru the woods flows a brook and as its clear water rushes 
over stony places, with mossy banks murmurs and flows merrily 
on. 

The course of the brook in Summer lies thru a green dell 
covered with foliage. There once rare mosses and ferns un¬ 
molested found a safe abode. Once a year, however, they were 
gathered for decorative purposes and to gladden the hearts ol 
children during Christmas and New Year. 

In the woods in the pathway were two charcoal plots where 
in a former age charcoal was manufactured to supply furnaces 
before the use of coal came into existence. 

In our time the lumber man is keeping the mountains closely 
trimmed, but neglects to move the debris. 

The shady forest is replaced by young saplings sprouting 
from the stumps of their parents, whose dead branches lie among 
the thickets. 

In the woods could be found medicinal plants, also winter- 
green with its fragrant leaves and berries, but is now scarce and 
seldom found. 

The journey of life is like the journey up the mountain. 

We find the stony lane of struggle, the brook and shady dell, 
of luxury where we love to dwell, the wild flowers of pleasure 
the thorns to keep us in the narrow path, when we reach the end 
of life’s journey we find at the edge of the clearing—the grave. 




MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


39 


Now where the wild pheasant calls his mate, 
And where the hare roams unafraid, 

There tangled woods may be seen, 

Where once were fields of velvety green. 

There a family lived life’s span, 

And reaped their reward from the soil. 

Made dear and sweet by care and toil. 

For treasures will be to us sweet. 

When struggled for when in need. 

Before their spirits took their flight. 

They lived and struggled then peacefully died; 
And in the wilderness left a green spot. 

Like an oasis in a desert hot. 

May we while here an example take. 

Their lives seek to emulate; 

And leave in the world a cultivated spot. 

And make it grow to a paradise 

May we by the struggles we must face. 

Leave the earth a better place. 

Cultivate the Good that in us dwells, 

The wilderness of mischief grows without aid. 



40 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


PHILOSOPHY OF A TRAMP 

On a warm and sunny day, 

A tramp lay sleeping by the way. 

Why don’t you go to work instead 
Of loafing in the shade I said. 

The tramp kept lying in the shade, 

And this is the reply he made; 

“My wants are few for my fare, 

I live on food men can spare. 

I love to be in the open weather 
The world and I are bound together.” 

“I ride on a car and breathe pure air. 

Gaze on the world that’s moving fair 
Like an eagle over land I soar. 

It is music to hear an engine roar.” 

“When the day is done and into the night. 
The train speeds onward in its flight; 

Colored lights in haste glide by. 

Like glowing meteors in the sky.” 

“In the early morn at break of day, 

I walk in a town along the way, 

I linger near a sunny street. 

And watch the people whom I meet.” 

And see 

“Slaves of toil, slaves of fashion. 

Slaves of habit, slaves of passion. 

Better in rags without a care. 

Free as the birds that fly in the air. 

Then to break my spirit, and dwarf my soul. 
By slaving in some dingy hole. 

And become a drop in the sea of humanity. 
Who toil and sweat to gratify their vanity.” 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


41 


‘‘When the night comes on I’ll long for rest, 
In that car yonder I’ll make my nest. 

Why should I wish to sleep in a bed, 

For that privilege I must toil and sweat. 
My shoes I’ll put under my head. 

Use them for a pillow instead. 

With my coat for cover lie down to sleep, 
And let the stars watch over me keep.” 

“Some may scorn my place to sleep 
Those who sow not will not reap. 

Over loss I will not weep.” 

“For me this place seems rather damp,” 
Said the ragged and weary tramp. 

He rose from his bed and said “Good-day,” 
Slowly along the road, he slouched away. 




42 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


CAMP CRANE 

The following lines were composed by the author in commemoration 
of the Re-union of war-veterans, known as Usaacs at the lo¬ 
cation of their training Camp known as Camp Crane in 
Al.'entown, Pa. 


CAMP CRANE 

If you are a Usaac and returned from the war, 
Visit Camp Crane where you left years before, 

The trees are in green this time of the year. 

The sun shines bright and the weather is clear. 
This spot you know I am fully aware. 

It has been altered by the Allentown Fair. 

Still you will find the open wooden gate. 

But no one to challenge you if you are late. 

So enter the gate, let your mind be at ease. 

And rest in the shade of the old oak trees. 

No more will you sail away from our shore. 

Our Country is at peace, war is no more. 



MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


There still stands the spacious race, Grandstand. 
Where oft’ floats the music of a band. 

On that lofty spot the soldiers once slept, 

And at night were often by the wind swept. 
Underneath they partook of many a meal. 

After drilling it made them all better feel. 

Some of the barracks are torn away. 

Others are used for the county display. 

The building that was once converted into a den, 

Is again converted into a cattle pen. 

In that pen rested many a weary head. 

Where now fat cattle are being fed. 

Many a snore, and many a sigh. 

Came from the old whitewashed wooden pigsty. 

It is not the pain of Death that brave men fear, 
Nor yet Hell’s torture that you hear. 

But to break away from friendships tie. 

And march away and say good-bye. 

No epoch in the span of life. 

Is greater impressed than a country’s strife. 

The discipline or the scenes of this fair spot, 

By thousands over the country, will never be forgot. 
This spot that you know and still hold dear. 

Will soon be no more is the rumor we hear. 

The green hills and valleys will always be the same, 
They cannot be moved fcr money or gain. 

So have one last view and picture in mind, 

The picture in mind man cannot change or find. 

In years to come when we are gone. 

On a tablet of bronze engraved on stone. 

Will be the roll of fame with many a name. 

To mark the spot where lies Camp Crane. 

Time will never the memory erase. 




44 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


The feelings and experiences of this place. 

The clouds of war, have all rolled by, 

That once from across the sea did fly. 

And brought feelings of evil-fore-bodings and gloom. 
From where thousands were daily meeting their doom. 

To this pleasure spot that was once Camp Crane 
From every part of the country the soldiers came. 

To receive discipline and daily drill. 

To save life in war as well as to kill. 

Many have had their last reveille. 

And to the Camp have said farewell. 

Many who answered their country’s call. 

Here slept for the last time on her soil. 

Let’s hope those remaining are marking time. 

When they’ll be marching in a body fine. 

To this fine old military Camp, 

With that vigorous steady tramp. 

We’d love to hear that Usaac band. 

Led b}^ that slim major with baton in hand. 

We’d love to hear their voices ring. 

And to music merrily sing, 

“Tenting on the old Camp ground” 

On the old Allentown Fair Ground. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


45 


HUMANS FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF BIRDS 

Near an odorous bone-mill lay, 

A pile of bones along the way, 

Of execution the martyrs died 
To the feathered race a ghastly sight. 

Of cattle, fowl, and various beasts. 

Humans have their Christmas feast; 

And of the feast it is the remains. 

This is what the heap contains. 

Bones of turkey, bones of geese. 

And bones of fowl that live in trees; 

Here a leg, there a thigh 
Till it made a pile so high. 

Upon a tree in the shade. 

Sits a robin and his mate. 

Me, they did not seem to see. 

So I thought I’d quietly be. 

Hearing them chatting in the tree. 

Said the robin to his mate: 

It is ghastly to behold. 

It makes me shiver I feel cold. 

To see the bones of our friends. 

The turkey, the goose, and the hen. 

Whom men ieed and keep in a pen. 

Deprive them of liberty. 

And keep them in misery. 

But I only mention the least. 

The worst is this Cannibal feast. 

It certainly must be a hell 
To among such monsters dwell. 

I have been truthfully told 
By a sparrow that’s very old, 



46 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


That at their annual Christmas feast, 

In the west and in the east, 

These cannibals will savagely take, 

A turkey, hen, rooster or goose. 

And sav'agely their heads cut loose; 

Then their naked bodies take, 

And in an oven richly bake, 

Our friends must be in a horrible plight. 

And it is a sorry sight. 

To see your father lose his head. 

And see the warm blood flowing red. 

And see his headless body jump. 

Like a brother on the romp. 

The mate replied. 

Weep not dear mate. Your feelings control. 
Comfort your mind, and your spirit console. 

It is noble to die that others may live. 

Martyrs are they who thus their lives give. 

It is very shocking I am sadly aware 
To see the pile, lying over there. 

Of every bone there is a use. 

It matters not the kind we choose. 

The bones of browsing hungry cattle 
Or humans that die on the field of battle. 

Go back to the soil from whence they came. 

And furnish food for the growing grain. 

It is plain to me how we by it gain. 

Said the robin:— 

Humans in philosophy seek comfort for grief, 
Your philosophy is consoling tho only brief, 

Still I long for the power to give friends a wing. 
To fly away and happily sing. 

A wing of strength and of speed; 

It is really their greatest need. 



MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


47 


What a joy it would to them give, 

Their lives then would be worthy to live. 

They know not what it means to be free, 

For they are sold in slavery. 

Then I heard the mate reply. 

With a mournful tearful eye, 

What you have said is very true. 

What the sparrow said is not new. 

What can we expect of them, 

Don’t they kill their fellow men? 

Far across the dark blue sea 
A bigger pile of bones you’d see; 

Skulls and leg bones. 

Spines and thighs, 

Millions till they reach the skies. 

When they have their mortal strife. 

They use poison, fire, thunder and knife. 
These monsters that kill, and die over there. 
Desolate the earth and poison the air. 

Under the ground and in every breath 
Lurks torture, despair, anguish, and death. 
In their lingering pain they say, 

They fervently and earnestly pray. 

For Death who is a welcome guest, 

Who brings them relief and happy rest. 

And yet they seem mercy to possess, 

I have seen them lovingly caress. 

The turkey before he met his fate. 

His death was not the result of hate. 

Those of our friends who are left behind, 

A swift and noble death they’ll find. 

While men are cruel to their kind. 

They live for days in agony and pain. 

In want misery darkness and rain. 



48 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Then said the robin to his mate, 

“Why are they cruel why do they hoard. 

Don’t we always have our board?” 

“Why do they kill, why do they war?” 

“When treasures destroyed will be no more. 

There is enough and plenty for all 
Yet some are in want and others spoil. 

We always have enough to eat 
And we have a place to sleep.” 

A black-bird sad and pale with fright. 

Alighted on the tree, in its flight. 

Said the Robin,— 

“Good-Morning, black bird why look you so sad?” 

“How is your health? Do you feel bad?” 

“Friend robin, I have a story to relate. 

As you know well our family is large. 

We travel in flocks, like an army at march. 

We rest at night in dark leafy trees, 

Crowded like a hive full of busy bees. 

For our living we follow the milk laden cows, 

Grazing in green fields where they arouse 

The cricket, the grasshopper, and every tiny louse, 

That tries to escape from that hot breath and cavernous mouth. 
But from its grasp we are immune. 

Misfortune in death is opportune. 

We watch and wait, when insects reveal. 

Their hiding place, we have a meal. 

We are a benefit, and blessing to man. 

Could they live in a world with insects overan? 

All we ask is a place to sleep. 

On that tear-drenched soil where humans weep. 

When the Sun sank low at the end of day. 

To the cemetery, our destination lay. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


49 


In hundreds we’d slumber in its leafy trees, 

Below in the ground thousands of Humans sleep. 
Happily at twilight—the end of day, 

In the tree-tops our children would play. 

But in those dark shadows a city man said, 

‘These birds in the city, 
make an awful noise. 

They are a black pest. 

They give us no rest 
Worse than unruly boys. 

Of these black-birds, 

I can see no earthly use. 

We should promptly begin. 

Their numbers to reduce.’ 

One summer evening, at twilight, 

Hundreds of us, were put to flight. 

As we heard a crash, and guns roar. 

My comrades fell, and knew no more. 

On the trees, man wreaked revenge. 

They killed the leaf and killed the branch. 

The suffering trees are standing there. 

With pleading stumps, stretching in the air. 

You see robin, I am black. 

Is it the cause why they hack. 

At our numerous family. 

Sleeping on the cemet’ry? 

It surely can not be the noise. 

More is made by school-boys, 

For which our friends forfeit their lives. 

Why is that spot, for sorrow and tears, 

A better life should lull their fears. 

The philosopher, the patriot, and the dreaming bard, 
Silently repose, in the grave-yard. 




50 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


We disturbed not a one that therein lies 
Nor have we seen one, from his bed arise. 

Yet there is neither rest, nor is there any peace. 
Not even in the silent cemetery trees. 

The Robin replied. 

When they are enlightened and from greed are free. 
They will not kill no more than we. 

There is nothing on earth they will not slay. 

When you see them coming move out of their way. 
Just then I stumbled and they had me spied. 
Startled they stared at me in fright; 

Upward they flew far out of sight. 

Guiltily I looked upward to search their face. 

But they were too high above my race. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


LEHIGH MOUNTAIN 

Composed ig2i 

On a warm day in early Spring, 

I sweetly heard the robins sing; 

I left for the Lehigh mountain to explore, 

A deed I never accomplished before. 

Thru the sappy budding woods I tread. 

Eagerly enjoying where I was led; 

Soon a vision came to view. 

Of a miniature lake so blue. 

In passing along the sunny bank, 

The frogs performed on me a prank, 

Of their presence I was not aware. 

Till I heard, a sound somewhere. 

Giving each other the countersign. 

One an other along the line. 

“Gip”, is the pass-word I heard them utter. 
Before they jumped one after another. 

Into the hazy water blue. 

How deep I surely never knew. 

I come to a birds nest, not far from the shore. 
Built by a bird the year before; 

It swings on a bush within my reach, 

I was curious to learn what a birdie can teach. 

It is a wise bird that is able to compose, 

A nest on a bush the restless wind blows; 

And in a wonderful nest to repose. 

To protect the young birds from her foes. 

The finest material is near the centre, of course 
Outside the nest, material is coarse. 

Composed of twigs and bark from grape vines, 
Then a layer of fine roots, and grass more fine. 




52 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Among the twigs is an object white, 

Hanging there for a year so tight. 

It is part of a paper brought by wing, 

A message rarely birdies bring. 

It was a speech a Senator had made. 

In favor of the League of Nations so great. 

It is all now very plain to me 
After the speech the birdie did see. 

Why she not her nest did feather. 

To withstand the stormy weather. 

With anything so crude and coarse. 

And placed it among the twigs, of course. 

Use can be made of everything you see. 

No matter how useless it seems to be. 

The authors of the League are thrown from the nest. 
And now the League has gone to rest. 

In hunting material for a nest. 

Let the birdie choose, she knows best. 

And remember in building a nest 

Trust the Eagle, who knows where it is safest and best. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


53 


THE BUTTERFLY 

As I walk thru the woods 
I see in the sun, 

A beautiful butterfly 
How I’d like to own one. 

Gracefully, with her purple wings 
She fans the sunny day, 

Pleasure to the eye she brings 
Like a model on display. 

I note it is a species rare 
I have a desire to trap, 

To catch that ornament sitting there, 
I quickly used my hat. 

To carry my struggling prisoner 
I had to use my dome. 

I decided on my cigarette case 
To carry my prisoner home. 

I carried her safely to my room 
And there I left her free. 

She recovered from her prison life 
And pretty soon I’d see. 

How she loved bright lights. 

And was as flighty as could be 
As if the light bulb were a flower 
And she a busy bee. 

Fearing she would soil her wings, 

I turned the light to night; 

And now she reflects on many t’.ings. 
While thus deprived of sight. 




54 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


It happened on the 21st of March, 

When I caught the butterfly at large, 

The next day snow flurries in the air. 

Warned the butterfly to beware. 

She basks in the warm sunshine of my room. 
Not knowing outside she’d meet her doom; 

Yet persistently restless and trying to escape. 
She tries thru glass her way to make. 

Nature is cruel to her children it seems. 

To lure them in the bright sun beams; 

To promise them sunshine and fragrant flowers 
In a land of budding tress and leafy bowers. 

To leave them in a land naked and cold, 

A land of suffering and tears untold. 

And strand a beautiful butterfly so fair. 

Not made for a land with snow in the air. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


55 


A MOUNTAIN JEWEL 

On the rugged Lehigh mountain, 

Flows a stream from a fountain; 

Where men struggled years before, 

To mine the yellow iron ore. 

The heavy iron ore they sold 
And turned the ore into gold. 

The iron ore was carefully raked. 

And in the mountain a wound was made. 

Kind nature alone and not perturbed. 
Healed the spot that man disturbed; 

Nature her wonders, never performs in haste. 
Never destroys and never wastes. 

She in time has given her reward. 

And adorned the mountain for our sport; 
With a jewel rare and fine. 

As compensation for the mine. 

If the mountain you should view. 

You’d find a turquoise lake so blue. 

Where she also loves to make, 

A happy home for her children’s sake. 

The frogs there croak in the silent night 
In daytime the nimble fishes bite; 

It is a most lovely sight, 

Near its banks I love to abide. 




56 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD 

I came in the woods to a deserted home, 

All that remains is a pile of stone. 

An old cherry tree at the corner stood, 

Many joys he brought to childhood. 

He protected the cottage from the storm 
As he stood there many years forlorn. 

Alone he fought the battle with Time, 

But now has fallen out of line. 

And lies over the ruins of the cottage there, 
The very picture of woe and despair. 

The fallow ground the wild has seized. 

And planted the yard with growing trees; 
The evergreen pine tree still is there, 

His branches still wave in the air; 

He rears his head above the wild, 

His presence made happy many a child. 

Now he stands alone and forgotten 
Where the families’ feet have trodden. 

How he could a story tell, 

If only in him speech would dwell. 

His trunk now is rotten and hollow. 

No doubt he soon will follow. 

The cottage, and the cherry tree. 

Lying on a pile to be. 

Converted to the hungry soil. 

Not with effort or with toil. 

Look over yonder the grape vine there, 
Once protected with loving care. 

On a bower her vines reclined. 

To bring forth fruit in the sunshine; 

But her friends are in the ground. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


57 


Once sturdy solid and sound; 

Alone she was left in neglect, 

No one to her life protect, 

Alone to fiercely struggle or die. 

Or with the wild a friendship tie. 

And now by hardships she has won. 

Her rightful place in the smiling sun, 
That tree beneath her is struggling still. 
Supports her vines against his will, 

It seems unjust and hardly fair 

But the tree never any fruit would bear. 



58 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


THE ROOSTER AND THE GANDER 

It was the month of May, 

The night was warm 
When the sun rose in the East; 

But mother’s bread near the stove, 

Rose with Magic Yeast. 

The roosters were crowing loud and clear. 
And waiting on the Sun, 

Would their masters never get up. 

No! Not a blessed one. 

But when the Sun and rooster met. 

The Sun was happy and gladly said, 

“My friend you are an early bird. 

Your greetings I have often heard. 

You are eager to a living earn. 

To the early bird belongs the worm.” 

“Yes, I have often heard that howl,” 

Said the proud industrious fowl; 

“But tell me who a living earns. 

Is sb very fond of worms. 

Surely my hen wouldn’t leave her nest, 

For a worm that I loathe and detest. 
Believe me I’m impatient and would rather, 
Scratch fight and a living gather.” 

While we are shut in this pen. 

There is no chance for me or my hen, 

I hail your arrival in this way. 

So the village will know it’ll soon be day.” 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


59 


His master ’rose late and came to his rescue, 
He opened the coop and out the rooster flew. 
In the meadow on a stack of hay, 

And looked down with contempt, 

On a gander that day. 

Of his high position 
He was very proud, 

He crowed very often, 

And crowed very loud. 

“You poor silly goose,” 

To the gander he said, 

“Like a frog on your feet, 

You have a web.” 

“Without any spur. 

And without a plume 
In a fight 

I can see your doom.” 

“You cannot scratch 
And you cannot fight, 

In a suit of white. 

You are a fright.” 

“For your wings, 

I wouldn’t give a rap 
Of what use are wings 
That only flap.” 

You cannot handle 
One who is rough. 

For your protection 
You throw a bluff. 



60 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


“A harsh sound, 

With your voice you make 
You stretch your neck 
And hiss like a snake.” 

”You web-footed freak, 

I bid you. So long! 

Go to the frogs. 

Where you belong.” 

Now the lowly gander, 
Never held a position high. 
And detested a country. 
That was always dry. 

So he silently goose-stepped. 
Away to the pond, 

Of wet refreshments 
He always was fond. 

When he came to the pond 
He heard cries of distress 
From a young chicken. 

With a wet dress. 

It was a young flapper, 
That flapped like a bird. 

In the shining water 
By a mirror was lured. 

It could not fly. 

And it could not swim; 

But was calling loudly 
For father to plunge in. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


61 


While it called loudly, 

And felt very sore, 

The rooster stood helpless. 

On the dry shore. 

With his plumes and spurs, 

And voice so clear. 

He did not know how 
To save his child so dear. 

He knew very well. 

How a rooster to trim. 

But never was able 
To learn how to swim. 

In great humiliation 
A plea he made. 

For the gander to come 
To the chicken’s aid. 

The gander like a hero true. 

With a graceful glide, 

Over the treacherous water blue. 
Swam to the chicken’s side. 

He helped the chicken to the bank; 
The rooster was filled with joy. 

He gave the gander many a thank. 
Who could swim like a boy. 

‘'Before you leave,” the gander said, 
'T wish a word with you. 

To save a life you can bet. 

That I know how to do.” 



62 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


“That I do not scratch for a living, 

I heard you lately accuse, 

My feet, surely are not handsome. 

But you’ll admit they are of use.” 

“I make my living with my head,” 

To prone the assertion true, 

He placed his head beneath the water, 
And soon his head withdrew. 

In his bill he held a bug. 

With joyfulness and pride 
Presented the bug to a duck. 

Swimming at his side. 

The duck now her thoughts expressed, 
And thought them very wise 
The saved young chicken, she addressed 
And gave her this advice. 

“Chickens shouldn’t near the water go. 
Before they learn to swim. 

Danger in the water lies, 

A mirror lures them in.” 

The boasting rooster’s pride was hurt 
He felt it very keen. 

On the fragrant stack of hay 
He now is seldom seen. 

Among the assembled barn-yard flocl , 
To the geese he is a laughing stock. 

To the hens he is a cruel shock. 

The boasting rooster doesn’t mock. 



MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


63 


THE JOURNEY ON EARTH 

Like a tiny flea sailing on a balloon 
I travel on this sphere, 

I gaze and wonder at the stars and moon, 
And fight my battles here. 

It matters not if I storm and fume. 

And shout till I am hoarse. 

The earth will travel just the same, 

I cannot change her course. 

If I seek to leave this moving sphere. 

And jump outward into space. 

The Earth holds me by a rubber string. 
And pulls me to my place. 

If I know all about the earth’s creation. 
And to other worlds would fly, 

Tho’ I know the mysteries of Revelation, 
Not that way does my journey lie. 

It matters not what books I’ve read, 

On this revolving sphere. 

What matters is the life I lead. 

While I am staying here. 

When I have learned to suffer and weep, 
And am no longer gay. 

Earth rocks me on her breast to sleep 
Then I am on my way. 




64 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


THE ALARM CLOCK 

I own an alarm clock that’s faithful and true, 

Every morning while I sleep she has an errand to do. 

To arouse me from slumber, when it’s time to get up; 

She calls me not gently but is very abrupt. 

How sweet is that last cozy minute of rest. 

Just before it is time to roll out of the nest. 

But I call on my will, and out of bed spring 
And stop the alarm-clocks clattering ring. 

When all is silent in my bed room, 

Out of the darkness out of the gloom. 

Comes the gentle sound of her tick. 

Regular, as music measured by a stick. 

She is*"more useful than ornamental, as you may see. 

Her life of service endears her to me 
Her face is plain, she is fully aware, 

With her hands before her face on the dresser over there. 

Still I love to gaze on her big honest face. 

As she ticks away the time, in her old nickel case. 

She has been knocked from chairs is battered and old 
Yet is dearer than a watch in silver or gold. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


65 


AUTUMN 

Autumn dressed the woody hills, 

In various shades of brown, 

And pleasure to the eye it brings. 

Before the leaves come down. 

The whip-poor-will no longer sings. 

His melody in the night, 

The cool wind whispers to the leaves, 

To leave the trees in flight. 

The frost now covers the wild grape-vine, 

And gives the grapes a thrill. 

The grape-juice from the wine-presss flows. 

For the owners’ dripping Still. 

That dandelion blossom defies the frost. 

Without a lucky star 

’Twas born too late to bring forth seed. 

Its head is bowing now. 

Bountiful Autumn! your bracing air. 

Will surely make us glad. 

Departing Summer, with joyful dreams. 

Is leaving lovers sad. 

Good-bye, dear Summer, those moon-light rides. 
Lovers miss them so. 

The shady trees and country lanes. 

Will soon be covered with snow. 

When Winter comes and brings a chill. 

And we know not where to go. 

For warmth we soon the chairs will fill, 

In a movie-show. 



66 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


OLD KING TUT 

Three thousand times this merry globe, 
Has waltzed around the sun. 

With what’s left of Tutankhamen 
All in bandages done. 

In Egypt where kings made their pile, 

Of good things he had the best. 

With roses gathered from the Nile 
He was laid away to rest . 

Old King Tut was a man so wise. 

Of the arts he made good use, 

In a golden sheath his body lies. 

Like a golden covered tooth. 

Peacefully he slumbers in his mould. 

But Time will steal and Time decays. 

If Time will steal that body old. 

We still will have his golden case. 



PART II 


IN PENNSYLVANIA GERMAN 





MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


69 


DER JAEGER UN DER BAUER 

En Shpiel die Shtory 

In Philadelphia hot mol en Man gelebt wu wenich in’s Land 
kumme is un war ungelehrt von de Nadur von wild Lewe wu lebt 
im Busch. Grad so wie es Leit hot im Land wu net fiel wisse 
von Lewe in’ere grosse Shtadt, so war en unbekant von Leweim 
Land. 

Weil er en fleisicher Man war, gebore un ufg'brocht in de 
Shtadt un regelmasich an de Ariwet war for sie Familia erhalte, 
hot er wenich Gelegenheit g'hot fer bekant zu ware von Lewe im 
Land. 

Nau sei Nochbar war en Man wu en Name g’hot hot as en 
Jaeger. 

Alle jag Zeit is er jage gange un hot Haim g’brocht Hersh, 
Haase, un anere wild Dhiers as er g’shosse hot. 

Mol ai Dag sagd en Schaffman sei Fra’, zu ihn, “John 
worum kanst du net a’ jage geh un Hersh haim bringe wieunser 
Friend. Dan antwortet ihre Man. “Er hot en Hund for jage 
ich hab ken Hund for jage.’’ “Wan es nothwenich is fer en 
Hund zu hawe fer jage den kansht du glei griege. Im Dhiere- 
shtore hot es alle sorte Hunde.’’ sag’d die Fra’. 

Der John hot gemaind es werd en guder Blan. Den naechste 
Dag is er an der Shtore gange wu sie alle sorte Hunde g’hat hen, 
a’ Voegel, Monekys, Babegoie, un anere Pets. 

Nau der Shtore-keeper hot en Jaeger Hunde g’wisse awer es 
ware al Haus-hunde. Der Jager hot genunk gewissd von Jage 
as sei net die ort Hunde ware fer Hersh zu jage. 

No secht er zum Shtore-man. “Host du ken Hunde fer Hersh 
jage.” “Yo.’’ sag’d der Shtore-man sell hab ich a’.’’ No 
weist er ihn en grosser Shepherd wu er cirig lobt as en Hund fer 
Kieh zu dreiwe. 




70 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Der Jaeger denkt, wan d’r Hund gud is fer Fieh dan is er a’ 
gud fer Hersh jage. Er ka’ft der Hund un gehet Haim. 

Mol ai’ Dag packed ersie Flint un mit sein Hund, shteigt 
uf en Drain g’bound fer der Lecha Berig im Lecha County. 

‘Sis ihn g’sad were das in Lecha County werde Buffalo, 
Hersh, Haase, un es werd en wild Land. 

Wie er an der Lecha B^rg kumme is mit sein Hund dan 
shtolbert er uf en Berg rum un hot nichs a’g’drufe zu schiesse. 

Der Hund is a’ net im Busch rum gauge un g’sucht, awer is 
just hinnich sein Maeshter noh g’loffe. 

Selle Weg sin sie im Busch rum geloffe shier den ganse Dag. 
Gege Owet kumme sie an en Bauerei an End von Busch. Eb 
sie dort ware is der Shepherd von sein Maeshter g’shprunge 
dorich der Busch. Der Jaeger hot net gewissd was es gewe hot 
mit ’en Hund, awer hot g’denkt er dhet gewiss glei ebbes uf jage. 

Es war g’shene ’as ’en Bauer sei Fieh net weit weg ware im 
en Feld. Der Hund sehnt en Kalb debei un fangd a’ es Kalb im 
Feld rum jage. 

Es Kalb is noch en Busch g’shprunge, un wie es dorich die 
Hecke gehet hoert der Jaeger es gehich ihn kumme. No denkt er, 
der Shep is doch en guder Hund un ich hab gemaind er werd 
nichs werd fer jage. Es hot net lang g’werd sehnt er es Kalb 
dorich der Busch shpringe. 

Er hot g’denkt, richtich do kumt en Hersch un der Shep 
hinne noch. Er ziegt die Flint in de hoeh un schiesst es Kalb. 

Wie der Bauer es g’hoert hot grache von de Flint un es 
G’blaff von Hund geht er naus in der Busch un find es Kalb dot 
un der Man un Hund debei shteh. Der Bauer boes greisht, 
“Fer was shiesht du mei Kalb!?” 

Kalb? sagd der Jaeger “Des is en Hersch.” 

Hersh! greisht der Bauer. Kansht du net der Unershiet 
sage zwiche en Kalb un en Hersh? 




MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


71 


Un fer jage zu geh mit en shepherd Hund! 

En Kalb kan en Kuh ware, en Jaeger kan en Kalb ware, awer 
en Shepherd Hund kan ken Hauns ware. 

“Nau,” sagd der Bauer “ich forde von dir das du des Kalb 
mir bezalshd,” 

Der Jaeger bedenkt die Worde en Minut un secht, “Ich 
bezal dich fer alles as es Kalb werd is wan du mir es Kalb 
ferkaft’s’hd. 

“Fereinichd,” Sagd der Bauer., Sell war die Schuld as der 
Jaeger noch Philadelphia kumme is mit en Kalb. 

Sei Fra’ war shtols mit ihn. Sie hot net der Unershiet 
gewissd zwiche en Hersh un en Kalb. Just e’mol war der Jaeger 
ferwickld. Wie die Fra’ g'frogt hot wu en Hersh sei Horner 
werde, secht er, “Es is en junger Hersh die junge hen noch 
ken Horner.’’ All die Worde was gange sin zwiche en Jaeger un 
Bauer mit seine Friend is in dem G’shpiel wu der Jaeger der 
Bauer a’dreft in Lecha County. 



72 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


ES SHPIEL DER BAUER UN DER JAEGER 
Characters von Shpiel 


Bauer . Shtengel 

Nochbar .Blanser 

Knecht . Melker 

Jaeger .John Townsboy 


Des Shpiel brauch ken dheueri Scenerie. Die Stage sot 
g’decorate sei mit welshkern Shtengel, un en Pass mit en 
Shpunde fer en Cider-berl. 

Per Costumes brauch ma Iwer-hose, bauere Hiet oder anere 
bauere Glaider. 







MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


73 


Curtain Ufgang 

Der Knecht un en Bauer sei Nochbar der Blanser sin am 

Cider drinke. 

Der Knecht sagd, 

“Der Cider kumt von de aide Muhl, 

Wu shtet an de Crick im Dhal; 

Iwer’s Rad schiesst klor Wasser kiel, 

An de Miihl wu Ebbel mahld.” 

“Ich bin hie g’fahre mit ’e Load, 

In de Morge Duft, 

Mit Ebbel wu ware siess un roth, 

Der Cider is ’n Lusht.” 

Enter Farmer Stengel —^“Well, Buwe wie is der Cider?” 

Knecht Metcher — “Gud" 

Nochbar Blanser — 

“Der Cider der hot Shpunk un Kraft.” 

Er is wild un er is jung 

Er fiihld as wan er lewendich werd, 

Er kitzeld mir die Zung.” 

Stengel — 

“Im Herbst legt ma’ Cider ei, 

Fruhlings is fer blanze, 

Heit hen mir unser Feierdag, 

Mit singe un mit danze.” 

‘Gud leb ich uf de Bauerei, 

Mei Kinner in de Shtadt; 

Leer kumme sie hie uf b’such, 

Sie gehne foil un satt.” 



74 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


“Ich b’such mei Freind meile von do, 

Wohl lewe dhail im Town; 

Wan’s zeit is fer Haim zu geh, 

Ferlosse dhun ich gern.” 

'Wan die Uhr im hoche Tern, 

Glubd die gemesse Zeit, 

Im Land zu meine Bauerei, 

Fleige die Gedanke weid.” 

"Wan die Ebbel zeitich sin, 

Un falle von de Bairn, 

Dan denk ich an’s leer Cider-berl, 

Wu leid al ai de Haim.” 

"Wan’s geel Welshkern is g’basht, 

Die Reife bringe Schloff, 

Foil mit Cider is sel Berl, 

Wu leid so kald im Hoff.” 

ALL ZUSAMME CHORUS. 

Dan nem mich an sel Cider-berl, 

So foil mit Froelichkeit, 

Ich un du un noch en Kerl, 

M’r hen ’en gude Zeit. 

"Wan ich nau sell Berl dort sehn, 

Mit glore Ebbel-brie, 

Des drink ich liewer wie Champagne, 

Sis g’flavored mit Winter-grie.” 

"Die Mishple falle von de Naescht, 

Die Hald sie losse geh, 

Die Haase hucke fesht im Nesht, 

So warm sin ihre Bai’.” 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


75 


“Wan im Winder en Freind host bei d’r, 

No geh m’r in der Keller, 

Un hohle ’n Pitcher foil mit Cider, 

Un Ebbel uf ’n Deller.” 

No ess mir Ebbel im warme Haus, 

M’r neme grosse Biss; 

Un shenke seller Cider aus, 

Bis ’r g’drunke is’. 

’ N Schuss hinich de Stage — Bang\ 

Stengel — 

“Horich! Seller Man hot meiner sechs mei Kalb g’shosse. Nau 
will ich awer— 

Enter Jaeger Townshoy am Shtern drickle mit en Shnuhduch, 
Jaeger ,— 

“I got that deer alright.” 

Stengel —^What! A deer! You shot my calf. 

Jaeger —Calf! This is not a calf it is a deer. 

Stengel —It is a calf but it is going to be a dear calf. Where 
are you from? 

Jaeger —My name is John Townsboy; I am from Philadelphia. 
I was told Lehigh County was a wild country. A friend told me 
many kinds of wild game could be found here. Not only wild 
birds, but even buffaloes and deer were running wild. 

Stengel — 

We have the wild and we have the tame. 

But the butcher for the tame, and the hunter for the game. 
The wild and the tame, to you are the same 
You are not a hunter, but butcher is your name. 

For the calf you have shot this unlucky day, 

I expect you know that you’ll have to pay. 




76 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Jaeger —I will gladly buy the calf and send it home to my 
wife. She can’t tell a calf from a deer and will be so proud of me. 

Stengel —^Agreed! You must learn a great deal about hunting. 
Never again go hunting deer with a shepherd dog. Can you 
speak Penna. German? 

Jaeger —I can’t speak it but I understand it fairly well. 

Stengel —Good. Let us speak Penna. German. It would be 
better if you could speak it also. 

Stengel facing Blanser sagd ,— 

“Do is en Man er dragt ’n Flint, 

Un schiesst uf was er find; 

Von jage wais ’r gor net fiel, 

Net meh’ as wie ’n Kind.’’ 

Stengel facing Hunter ,— 

Wan du naus gehst uf die Jacht, 

Kum net uf’s Land zu mir; 

Mei Flint wilcomd dich un gracht, 

Des will ich sage dir. 

Uf’s Trexler’s Bauerei do sin, 

Die Hersh un Buffalo, 

Un alle Diers zaum un wild. 

In Lecha hen mir do. 

Im Jordan shtehn die Buffalo, 

Uf’s Trexler’s Bauerei, 

Im Summer gehne sie ’m Wasser noh, 

Awer sin net frei. 

Uf mein Land mit alles druf. 

Bin ich Herr un Boss; 

An mein Fieh do geh ferbei, 

Un schiess ken Kuh fer’n Haas. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


77 


Jaeger —Your language I understand quite well, 
A rabbit you name Haas; 

IVe seen arid heard of different kinds, 

But never shot Pan-Haas. 

I’ve wandered about these rugged hills, 

I rambled all around, 

Tell me where I shall go, 

Where Pan-Haas can be found. 


Stengel —Ha! Ha! Do is en Man von Philadelphy fer Pan- 
haas zu schiesse in Lecha County. 

Mei jaeger Friend, Pan-haas is ken Dhier wu lebt. 

In Philadelphy hen sie en Imitation, Sie hais es Scrapple. 
Awer nem inacht was ich sag in English. 

Good Pan-haas comes from Lehigh county, 

None better in the nation, 

The best of Philadelphia scrapple. 

Is only an imitation. 

Mei Fader mie Gros fader, ya—un mei Uhrgrosfader hen 
Pan-haas gemacht wie des Land noch en Wilderness war. Awer 
sag mir wer die Inventors ware von Pan-haas, oder Lotwerick. 
Niemand wais es. So geht’s in de Weld. Fiel von unser grosse 
Pennsylvania Leit sin fergesse. Sie hen ken Monuments. Sie 
hen fiel Gudes g’dhu in de Weld wie sie gude Dinge g’lossed 
hen fer uns zu esse. Fer dir en Idea gewe von Pan-haas mache 
dan paint ich en Worde-picture von de schlacht Zeit—es is a’ 
die Pan-haas Zeit. 

Der Butcher is do fer schlachte die Sei, 

Sis frieh im Morge der Dag kumt glei bei; 

Der Morge is kald un die Sei sin fet; 

Un der schlacht Kessel hengt an de eise Ket. 



78 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


’S Feuer unich en Kessel brumt un gracht; 

Un schmeist die Helling weid in die Nacht, 

’S unruich Wasser is ready fer bribe, 

As der Butcher die Borshte kan ziege. 

Nau kumt der Butcher un wetzt sei Messer, 

Der Stahl is gud, es schneide geht besser; 

No drinkt er noch en Glass foil Wei’, 

Un geht hertzoftich an die Sei. 

Der Butcher geht un shtecht die zwai, 

Ma’ hoert sie greishe es dhut em weh; 

Ma’ gleicht sie lewendich un ma gleicht sie dot; 
Awer geb mir shunge Flaish Wersht un Brod. 

Fer middag Esse gebt es gude Sache; 

Der Butcher is am Brotwersht mache. 

Bessere were net g’macht bei Hand, 

As der Butcher macht im Land. 

Ainer is. an Wersht-machine dreye; 

Der Butcher dhut es Filsel shpreye; 

Mit Karioner, Peffer un Salz, 

Die Weibsleit schneide Schpeck fer Schmalz. 

Es Schmalz is g’pressd der Owet kumt bei. 

Die Wersht sin g’macht un sie sin fei’. 

Der Butcher packed ei er is ready fer geh. 

Die Familia kan butchere mit de Zaeh. 

Sie breiche ken Hilf sie breiche ken Baas; 

Sie hen n Breakfast g’hat von Pan-haas. 

Noch finfe am Supper un Middag’s noch Elfe, 
Kan die Familia sich gud selwert helfe. 

Die Fra’ brauch net wunnere was zu koche. 
Dorich die kalde winder Woche. 

Es Schmalz is g’kocht aus de Griewe; 

Sie hot Sei-flaish fer koche mit Riewe. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


79 


Richmasel g’kocht mit Sauer-kraut, 

Is ains von de gude Dinge uf de Erd. 

Der Land-Schaffman is en glicklicher man, 

Wan er Pan-haas hot in de Pan. 

Un uf en Garret hengt yord von yord, 

G’shmokde Wersht von alle Ord. 

Die Brot-wersht henge uf de Line, 

Die Shunge henge an de Twine. 

Im Keller sin die Grumbiere drin. 

Foil mit Coale is die Bin. 

Von eigemacht Sacht is foil der Shank, 

G’cande Obsht is foil die Hank. 

Sie hen von Esse was sie breiche, 

Un bezahle ken koche Price; 

Wan die Keld von Winder blost, 

Un es regert kisseld un schlost, 

Die Frucht in de Sheier is in Seek, 

Frieh im Owet is er unich de Deck. 

So war es mol in e’ anere Zeit, 

Mit hoche Price finshtd’ es net Heit. 

Nau mei jaeger Freind hab ich dir en Beishpiel gewe von 
Pan-haas mache., so das du waisht as es net en wilder Haas ist, 
Blanser was waisht du von Haase. 

Blanser — 

’N glainer Haas noch jung un dum, 

Un arig unerfahre, 

Hupst in de Weld fer en Lewe rum, 

As wie er werd ferlore. 

Iwer die Shtross chumpt der Haas, 

Er sitz sich in der Grawe; 

Un guckt von Wunner aus en Grass, 

Mit grosse shtarre Auge. 



80 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Glainer Haas so weiss un brau, 

Ich bin zu dir en Friend; 

Ich dhu dir nichs was sag ich nau, 
Behiet dich von en Feind. 

Dan horich nau un shtel die Ohre, 

Ich geb dir gude Roth; 

Oder lebshtd’ net lang, un gehst ferlore, 
Un host en shneller Dot. 

Wan der Fiend uf zwai Bai’ kumt, 
Ferlier ken Zeit un geh; 

Nem en hocher langer Chump, 

Un shnell dei hinnere Bai’. 

Ich un die von meine sort, 

Ich shem mich es zu sage. 

Hen fiel von deine Briider g’mert. 

An de Zeit fer jage. 

Es hot wohl dhail von meine sort, 

Wu kan ma’ draue un glawe. 

Ich kan net sehne in ihre Hertz, 

Un kan dir’s a’ net sage. 

Die Bletter sin brau uf de Hecke, 

So brau as wie dei Hoar; 

G’fahrlich is es in Fence-ecke 
Im kiele Shpotyohr; 

Hald dich von ain wu dragt en Flint, 
Wan er weg is von dir weid, ^ 

Schleich aweg un shnell dich g’schwint. 
No bisht du zimlich g’sheit. 

Los ken Shpur in em Schnee, 

Sie shpure dich wie’ n Dieb, 

Neshtle unich ’n grosser Shtai, 

Wan dei Lewe is lieb. 



MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


81 


Der Haas chumpt fort un horicht net, 

Ferleicht is es besser so; 

Er will ken Lewe von Druwel un lang, 

Er lebt Hewer kertz un froh. 

Der Summer is rum sei’ Zeit is uf, 

Der Jaeger kumt glei rum, 

Un gebt ihn en Schuss mit de Flint, 

Un bartzeld der Haas um. 

Jaeger —I have learned it is unlucky not to understand a 
language properly. A little education is something dangerous. 

Stengel —Why? 

Jaeger —Well, I will tell you, My neighbor an Englishman 
fell in love and married a Pennsylvania girl, who understood 
English but could speak better the language of her mother. 
Her husband could not speak her language at all. Soon after 
they were married and had the home furnished their troubles 
began. 

It started this way; George, for that was his name, loved 
to lie in bed late in the mornings. It was necessary for his wife 
to call him several times before he got out of bed. 

One morning his wife called up the stairway, “George, 
George,” No answer. So she called again, “George get up sis 
hell dag.” By this time George was awake and doubting his 
own ears, replied, “What!” His wife repeated, Get up sis hell 
dag.” 

He got up angrily and said “Are you calling me hell dog?” 
I am calling you because Sis hell dag” said the wife innocently. 

Then the trouble began. He told her she never spoke that way 
to him before they were married and he was not going to be called 
hell dog. 

Not understanding the cause of her husband’s actions, the 
feelings of the wife were greatly hurt; and henceforth took 
shelter under the roof of her parents. 



82 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


In the meantime George related the strange actions of his 
wife to a neighbor that understood Penna. German, ‘Why”! 
said the neighbor your wife never called you a hell dog. She 
meant to say in English; George get up it is daylight.” 

He lost no time in hastening to the side of his wife and all 
was forgiven. 

Stengel —Do kan ma’ sehne was happend wan ma net fiel 
wais. Wan du widder noch Lecha County kumsht lern zu 
schiesse, lern zu jage, lern Penna. zu schweze, zu schreiwe un 
zu lese. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


83 


DER ROT LOEB 

Wan ma’ die County-map von Pennsylvania shtudierd, dan 
sehnd ma’ das ’n Riegel weg im Lecha County von Alburtis ab 
sich nei biegd, un macht ’n Boge in Berks as wie ’n Fish- 
angel. Uf de Map am End von Weg is in Dubbe wu is benamd 
Rittenhouse Gap. 

Dort hot die Nadur wie die Berge g’macht sin ware, odere 
von Eise hie g’dhu. 

Wan ma’ der Name, Gap hoert, dan gemand es ’em an 
Berige. Es kan ken Gap oder Dhal gewe une Berge, un Berge 
sin an selm End von County. Fer fier Meil von Alburtis ab is 
der Weg gelegd nufzuss dorich der Busch. Uf dhail Maps sin 
Bletz benamd an den Weg, wie Heinley, Garnder’s, Wetzels, 
un Red Lion. Wan awer en unbekanter Man den Weg drawelle 
dhet un koemt an Heinley’s, dhet er nichs finne as en alder 
ferfaulder Werft. Wan er nau noch weider gehngt dorich Busch 
un Boge rum bis an Gardner’s dhet er nichs finne as ’n Brick wu 
die Shtross iwer der Weg geht. Am Reigelweg shtehne als noch 
paar aide faule Poshte wu mol n Werft war un en Side-track fer 
Mine eilade. 

Sel un paar aide Mine-lecher in de Hecke is all as do is von 
Gardner’s. 

En Meil weider an den Weg is der Rot Loeb oder Red Lion. 
Un von den Blatz wol mir schwetze. Dreisich bis fierzich 
Yohre zurick war es en buisier Blatz. Wie als die Mines g’schaft 
sin ware in dare Gegend dan war es Rot Loeb Wertz-haus 
fol Miners wu dort g’board hen. Do ware Auslander von 
England, Scotland, Ireland un Deutschland. 

Dhail von denne Miners hen Penna.-deutsche maed g’hiert, 
un heit lewe ihre Kinner un Kins-Kinner net weit von de Noch- 
barschaft, un schwetze Penna. deutsch so gud as wie die Eldshte. 



84 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Die History von den Blatz un die Mines is en lange Shtory 
an sich selwert. Der Schreiber will jusht von Rote Loeb schreibe 
noch en yohr 1890. Per sellere Zeit wisse meh eldere Leit. 
Es original Rot Loeb Werts-haus shteht nime. Es war als en rot 
Frame-haus g’shtane net weit von Reigelweg. Nadurlich 
wun’erd ma fer was wer es Wertz-haus benamd Rot Loeb’oder 
Red Lion Hotel. Aide Leit hen g’sad der Wert het an rote 
Fra’ gh’ot wu so boess gewessd werd. Wan die Miners als 
dorshderich gewessd werde oder hette geguckt fer Excitement 
hette sie g’sad, Wolle mol nuf zum Rote Loeb. Un es ledsht 
hot es Werts-haus de Name grickt der Rot Loeb. 

Ich hab awer schon gewunert eb die Englishe miners net 
der Blatz g’dawft hen. In aide Zeite ware als die Wertsheiser 
benamd so wie, “The White-Swan’’ “The Black Cat’’ un so de 
gleiche. Ewen die Shtore hen Name un en Merick so wie en 
Bar en Loeb oder anere Merike g’hot. In London England is en 
aid Hotel von de yohre 1600 benamd Red Lion Hotel*. Es kan 
sie as die Englishe, weil es Gebei rot war, es benamd hen Rot 
Loeb, or Red Lion. Shpoeter is en nei Werts haus gebaut were 
un es hot a’ der Name grickt wie der Blatz Rot Loeb oder Red 
Lion, 

Wie die Mines in Pennsylvania noch in Operation were dan 
war der Rot Loeb en grosser shipping Blatz von eise Mine. Dort 
war en Werft en fiertel Meil lang wu die Mine eigelade is ware 
in die Cars. Die Mine is hie ’gfahre ware un is a’ bei kumme 
iwer die Berge am en Cable in Kiwel wu g’dumpd hot uf der 
Werft. 

Die Mine-fuhre hen als die weche Shtrosse uf g’risse g’hot 
as die Redder in de Shpur g’loffe sin bis an die Nab. 

Do is als der Fuhrman newe har geluffe mit siene sechs Geil 
mit en lange Gaishel in de Hand as g’guckt hot wie en Schwartze 
Schlang. Die Gaishel hot er als grache mache wie en Pishtol. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


85 


Wan als die Geil un Wage iwer die Blanke von Werft gange 
sin hot es als gemacht as wie der Sound von ’ere grosse Drum. 
Awer sel ware gude Fuhr-leit wu die Mine-fuhre g’driwe hen. 
Die Fuhrleit hen als die Geil so nachst am End von Werft g’fiert 
as em der Grissel aus gange is es Rad von Wage gengt driwer 
nuner. 

Awer sis en Zeit kumme wu die Mines unregular g’schaft 
sin ware. Wan die Mines ruich geleye hen dan war wenich 
Business an de Werts-heiser un uf en Riegelweg. 

Wan die Ingein aimols der Dag uf der Berg kumme is hot sie 
jusht paar Cars g’hot. Wan en demagradisher President drin 
war hot er die Schuld grickt bei de republickanisher Miners. 
Wan es en republicanisher President war dan hot er die Schuld 
grickt bei de Demagrade. Awer mit de Zeit hot es nichs aus 
gemacht war President war, die Mines ware ruich. 

Dhail von de Miners hen als noch in de Gegend g’wohnd un 
geword fer die Mines uf zu shtarte bis Sie g’shtorbe sin. Anere 
sin fort g’zoge un ihre Lewe gemacht in anere G’shefte. Heit is 
alles Shtill an denne Mines. Es g’rabbel von de Gears die Seifts 
von de Mine-ingein, un die Shteam-peif hoert ma’ nime. 

An Rittenhouse Gap is nichs meh’ as en zamme g’fallti 
Shtai mauer wu als en Crusher g’shtane hot un wu der Edison 
selwert dort war fer zu sehne wie sei magnetic Concentrator 
schaffe dhet. Die Mine Lecher sin fol Wasser. Wan ma’ en 
Shtai nei schmeisst dan laud es in paar Secunde as wie wan ebber 
uf en Bass-drum schlage dhet in de Erd. 

Nau wol mir zurick denke an die Zeite an Rote Loeb noch 
1890 wie die Leit noch net “one half of one per cent’’ Beer 
g’drunke hen. Selle Zeit ware noch ken Automobiles g’drawelld 
iwer die Lans’ Shtrosse. Die Wege ware gemacht AJ^on Dreck 
un Shtai. Im Summer sin die Leit fahre gange mit en Gaul un 
Buggy, entweders iwer Shtai oder dorich Shtaub. Am Rote 



86 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Loeb hot ma’ im Summer nichs g’hoert as wie die Locusts in de 
Baem am greishe un die Sun sehne ihre Hitz an danze as wie en 
Shimmy-danzer. 

Es hot die Leit schlaferich gemacht awer, die Hawer-leis 
han de zu g’sehne as die Leit wacher g’bliwe sin. No war a’ 
die aid Mine Ingein wu alle Dag am fier uhr uf der Berigg’brumd 
kumme is. Wan sie nachst an die Shtrosse kumme is hot sie 
als g’blose, es hot wol die Leit fershreckt awer sie hen a no grad 
g’wissd die Zeit, so gud as wie wan die Uhr dieZeit g’schlage het. 
Die junge Kerls hen selli Ingein aimol der Monet mit de groeshte 
Froehte bewilcomd. 

Es war wan der Beer-man von Catasauqua kumme is fer sei 
Bill collecte von Wert. Do hen ferleicht sewe oder achte dort 
g’hockt uf de Werts-haus Porch un gewort in selle shtaricke 
Shtiehl, un es war en Fesht zu ihre Auge wie der dick Beer man 
von de Ingein-cab g’shteiche is. 

Es war Music zu ihne wie er an der Bar g’luffe is un hot g’sad 
“Buwe kumt hier un drinkt ains.” Ma’ kan sich forshtelle wie 
die Buwe g’fiihld hen wie sie en kald glass Beer g’drunke hen as 
g’kickt hot. 

Nau do ware paar junge Menner im en Feld am Schaffe. 
Es war a’ arme Schlugger un hen net so en Chance ferseime 
wolle fer Beer zu drinke, un hen sich awer a’ g’shemd fer en 
Beerman fer jusht hie g’loffe kumme fer en Treat. No sin sie 
in die Bar-shtub g’luffe un zum Wert g’sad. 

“Jake die Sei sin im Grumbiere-Shtick.’’ Of course der Jake 
hot ken Sei g’aignd fer raus zu breche in’s Grunbiere Shtick, un 
der Beerman hot sei a’ net g’wissd. Wie der Beerman zu ihne 
g’sad hot “Buwe kumt a’ hier un drinkt etwas’’, hen sie die Sei 



MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


87 


im Grunbiere Shtick fergesse. In ainere halb Shtun’ is die Ingein 
von de Gap kumme, sie hot ken Shteam gebreichd; fer fier Meile 
is es Berig nunner gange. Am Rote Loeb hot sie widder geshtopd 
der Beer man is widder in die Cab g’gradeld, die Ingein hot paar 
mol g’husht no is sie mit en Beer man der Berig nunner bis ma’ 
nichs meh g’sehne hot von ihre wie sie in der Bush gedrehd is. 
Fer die Buwe war die Zeit zu kertz. Der Beer man hot es paar 
mol “ufg’setzt,” awer war fort. 



88 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DER HUNDS JOHN 

An denne Zeite sin als zwai Persone den Weg g’draweld wu 
ware bekant dorich’s Land im County. Es war der '‘Hun’s 
John” un der “Brille Schmidt.” Sie sin alle zwai, yohre lang dot. 
Es sin heit noch fiel Leit wu lewe as wisse von denne Traweller, 
awer es hot a’ fiel junge Leit as uf g wackse sin wu nichs wisse 
von denne Persone. Ferleicht froge sie, “Wer war der “Huns 
John” un der “Brille Schmidt?” 

Der Huns John war en deutscher wu g’handeld hot in Hunde. 
Was sei rechter Name war glab ich net as ebber g’wissd hot. 
Niemand hot fiel gewissd von seine History. Un niemand hot 
sich drum bekimmert. Es is awer schaad as er un Sei Fuhr mit 
Hunde aus de Weld gange is une en Pictur defo. Die Weld hot 
en Masterpiece ferlore von Armmut do debei. Ich glab wan en 
Man so’ en Pictur het, dan het er en Fortune. Er war g’glaid 
im en lange Rock un dicke Kap wu er geware hot Summers un 
Winders. Er war zu g’hoard un die Hoar hen alle Wege 
g’shtane. Wan er g’schwetzt hot dan war sei grosser Zah 
fanne im Maul g’hange wie en Grub-hack. So is er als newe hau 
g’loffe mit seine Hunde un alder Gaul un Deck-wage. Der aid 
Shprings-wage war bedecked un g’flickd mit aide Dicher. Sei 
Gaul war mager ma’ hot die Ribbe zehle kenne. Es G’sher war 
g'bunne mit aide Dershtrick, un sei Hunde von fiel Sorte ware 
mager. Dhail von denne Hunde ware g’bunne hinne an der 
Wage, anere sin so mit g’loffe. 

Die Leit hen alsfer, gewissd wan der Hun’s John um der Weg 
war wan er en halb Meil ab war hen die Hunde schon g’blaffed. 
Do ware mol die Hauns un die Haus-hunde wu sich in en Zern 
g’blafft hen, Sie hen all net gwissd fer was as sie blaffe, awer ai 
Hund hot g’blaffd weil der aner g’blafft hot. Bei de Zeit as der 
Huns John mit seine Hunde de Shtross ruf kumme is as sie ihn 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


89 


g’sehne hen dan is es ersht recht abgange. Des hot ariger g’laut 
as wie en Fox-chase. Do ware net jusht es lang g’brill von de 
Hauns awer die kertze yip, yip, un scharf g’blaff von anere 
Hunde. Dhail von seine Hunde hen awer der Mut ferlore 
g’hat. Sie sin unich en Wage fort g’loffe un sich nichs bekimmert 
was for a’ geht. Ferleicht war es Hunde wu sich g’druweld hen 
weil sie ken Hairnet g’hat hen. 

Wan der '‘Huns John” als der Weg gange is don hen als die 
Hunde an de Hoff-fence der Rache uf g’risse as wie en Loeb. 
Wan ma’ awer es Dhurli uf g’macht hot as sie naus g’kent hen 
dan ware sie bang fer naus zu geh. So is der Huns John als fer 
Yohre dorich es County g’drawelld. An de Creameries hot er 
als Milich Shlop, un aid Brod von de Becker grickt, fer sich, sei 
Hunde, un Gaul. 

Wie die Mines an Seisholtzville nime am geh ware dan hot 
er sich en Hairnet gemacht mit seine Hunde in de aide Ingein- 
heiser. Niemand hot sich bekimmert um ihn. Mol ai Winder 
wie es so kald war is en Man hie fer ihn b’suche. Wie er hie 
kumme is war alles ruich, er geht nei un find ihn im Ingein haus 
shteiff g’frohre. 



90 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DER BRILLE SCHMIDT 

Es hot junge Leit wu iwer die Wege von County fahre in ihre 
Machine so shnell as sie nichs sage kenne von de Landschaft wu 
sie driwer fahre. Ich zweiwel eb sie ewen die Reiser inacht hen 
wu an Weg shtehne. Wan der Brille Schmidt noch lewe dhet, 
dan dhete sie an en Man fer bei fahre uf Foos mit en Satchel 
in de Hand, wu awer alle Haus gewissd hot un ferleicht meh 
bekant war mit de Shtrosse as ainicher Man im County. Mit den 
asermaniche Yohre uf Foos iwer die Wege gauge is, dan war die 
Shtross sei Hairnet, un er hot fermudlich sei Bletz an de Shtrosse 
g’hatte wu er als g’rugd hot im Schatte. Selle Zeit ware noch 
ken Automobiles fer en Man uf Foos zu shtabe. Es scheind net 
lang zu sei as er dot is awer wan ma an die Zeit denkt dan is es 
m de zwansich Yohre. Junge Leit frogeferleicht, “Wer warder 
Brille Schmidt?” 

Eldere Leit wisse as der Brille Schmidt von Deutschland 
kumme is. Sei rechter Name hot er uns g’lossd as Paul Pfleugel. 
Er hot sei’ Lewe net fiel g’sad von sich selwert un niemand 
as ma wais hot sich fiel bekimmert was er war in Deutschland. 
Was er war un was mir net wisse is begrabe ware mit ihn. Es 
hot gewiss noch von seine Freind im County wu ferleicht meh 
wisse von den Man awer mit de Zeit sin selle a’ dot no is es nime 
lang bis ewen Sei Name fergesse is. Ich browier der Man 
beschreibe wie ich ihn gekent hab als en Bu. 

In de yohre 1890 is er als g’drawelld iwer es County. Eb er 
gud bekant war in anere Counties als Berks kan der Schreiber 
net sage. Er war rot-g’sichtich, hot en brauner derby Hut 
g’ware, braune Suit, Schlup un Collar wu war mol weiss 
gewesst. Sei Haor ware lang un hot sie zurick g’ware; un mit sein 
braune Mustache hot er g’guckt as wie en Dichter von en hundred 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


91 


Yohre zurick, oder en Combination von Bismark un en Geothe. 
Er hot de Leit Brille ferka’ft un Daaf-scheine aus g’filld. Sei 
Esse hot er grickt von de Leit wu er b’sucht hot. So hot er sei 
Lewe g’macht in de Weld. 

Er war gud am ’Mole. Wan sei Friend ihn en Blei-pencil 
un Babier gewe hen, hot er oftmols in paar Minute en schoener 
Gaul mit Saddle un Reider gemold fer die Kinner. Er war 
alsferd uf gelebt un hot gebrowiert die Leit zu entertaine mit seine 
Nerrheite. 

Er hot als en Englishe Zeitung genume un en langer Brief 
g’lese von John un die Mary am Blau Berig. Es ware al Dumheite 
wie er uf die Zeitung g’guckt hot un dhail Leit hen g’maind er 
dhet so ebbes aus de Zeitung lese. 

Er war en guder Actor, awer mit den as er hoch Deutsch 
geshproche hot war er net so gud zu fershteh. Er hot mol 
gewisse wie Leit geweind hatte an ’ere Leicht. Er hot als sei 
Schnubduch an die Auge un g’heilt as wie wan er der Shlickser 
het. Wan er am heile war un hot es shier net raus g’brocht secht 
er. “Ich wunner eb er ebbes werd war.” Er hot es so nadurlich 
mache kenne jeders hot lache misse, Ains von seine Werde ware 
oft. “Hans du gehsht in der Kashte.” Well er is nau drin. 
Er hot niemols g’glabt oder sei Druwel ferzehld. Jusht aimol 
is er an en Blatz kumme der Man von Haus war g’baderd mit 
Rumatis. Er glabt zum Brille Schmidt von sein Aeland. 
Der Brille Schmidt sagd zu ihn “Sei zu freide du host en Hairnet 
wo du ruge kanst. Denk mol an mich, ich bin allai un mus immer 
an geh sei.” So is es in de Weld, jeders maind er hat der groessht 
Druwel. En anere Man sei Druwel maind ma’ oftmols werd 
gor nichs. Ma’ kan en jusht shpiere wan ma sich in sei Schu 
shtelt. Fer en Beishpiel, los en junger Man noch Deutschland 
geh un ins Grieg geh fer sei Land, wan der Grieg ferbei is los ihn 
allai uf de Shtrosse drawelle un Brille ferkafe bis er aid is. Ich 
glab er dhet oftmols an sei Freind denke in Amerika wu er 
nime expecte dhet zu sehne* Yohre is der Brille Schmidt allai 



92 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


g’loffe, awer fer Kumpany un sei Lonesomekeit ferdreibe, nemt 
er en glainer Hund zu sich fer mit zu drawelle. Em Hundli 
sei Name war Roverli. Es hot en braune Farb g’hot, un war 
ebbes von en Spaniel. Die Ohre ware lang un zotlich, Der 
Brille Schmidt hot die Weld g’halde up sei Hundli. Er war mol 
an en Blatz mit sein Hundli, un wie er en iwer der Kop g’shtriche 
hot mit de Hand secht er zum glaine Hund, “Roverli, Roverlie, 
wie geht’s uns noch in de Weld.” Wan erals an die Zukunft 
gendenkt hot dan hot er g’sad. “Was war der Mensch, was is 
er, un was kan er noch ware.” Noch ains von seine Werde 
ware, “In fufzich yohr is alles ferbei.” 

Es RoVerli hot er g’traind, wan er ebbes fergesse hot dan 
is es Roverli hinne noch kumme un hot’s im Maul g’hat. Er 
hot als g’macht as wie wan er en Zeitung fergesse het, awer sei 
Hundle is alsfer hie gange un hot’s noch g’brocht wan er ferlosse 
hot. Awer sis en Zeit kumme wu der Brille Schmidt sei Roverli 
ferlosse hot misse. Mol ai Dag is es krank ware un is glei dot 
gange. 

Dhail Leit hen g’sad es het ebber en Hund Gift gewe. Fer 
was wais ich net. Ich glab wohl as so Leit sin in de Weld. Es 
ware grosse Schmertze fer der Brille Schmidt zu sehne sei 
ainsichter gedreier Kumerad shtorbe un ihn net helfe kenne. 

Wie er dot war dan nemt er der Hund unich der Arm, un 
wie die Droppe an de Backe nunner la’fe ware, geht er allai 
mit sein dot Roverli un sucht en Blatz fer es zu begrabe. 

Land hot er kens g’aignd no grabt er es newe an die Shtross 
wu er Yohre gdrawelld hot. Wie es zu g’deckd war la’ft er 
widder allai un langsam mit en schwer Hertz iwer die Wege. 
Ich wais net hot er seinm Lewe sei Sing-shtick g’hoert, oder net, 
wu geht, 

I am a pilgrim, I am a wanderer 
I can tarry, I can tarry, but a night. 

Seller Song hot ihn g’bassed. Wan er noch selm als der Weg 
gange is, dan war er weil an Roverli sei Grab. Er muss oftmols 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


93 


an sei Jugend g’denkt hawe, un sei Freind wu er yohre zurick 
ferlosse hot in Deutschland fer immer. Er war en hoch g’lernter 
Man. En Shtudent as noch de Kutztown Normal School gange is 
dreft ihn mol a’ uf de Shtross, Der Shtudent war am Ladeinish 
shtudiere, un hot glei aus g’fonne as der Brille Schmidt sei 
Lessons besser g’kent hot wie er selwert. Der Brille Schmidt 
hot en Merick uf de Shtern g’hot zwiche de Auge. Wie er 
g’frogt is ware wie er seller Merick grickt het, secht er, “Sabre 
Schnitt.” Es kan sei as er der Merick grickt hot im en Duell 
im aide Land. 

Es kan a ’ sei as er en grickt hot in Sidliche-Greig. Die 
ledshte Yohre von sein Lewe hot er zwelf Dahler der Monet 
g’zoge Pension von Government. Sei zwelf Dahler hen als net 
lang g’last. Wan er als sei Pension g’zoge hot war er an en 
Land’s Wertshaus un hot g’shmokd, g’drunke, un g’blaudert bis 
es al war. 

Awer ’ sis en Zeit kumme wu er die Weld ferlosse hot misse. 
Die Zeit war do wu es g’haise hot, “Hans du gehsht in der 
Kashte.’’ Er is krank were un is noch en Arme-haus g’schickt 
ware in Lecha County. Dort is er g’shtorbe in 1902 un is fer- 
grabe an de Huffe Kerich in Berks County. 

Dort leid der Paul Fleugel von Breslau Germany, wu iwer es 
County g’drawelled is Daaf-scheine aus g’filld, Brille ferka‘ft, 
un die Leit lache hot mache. Sei Kummerade in de G. A. R. 
hen ihn awer net fergesse. Er hot en Grab-shtai un iwer sei 
Grab schwenkt der amerikanish Flag. Er is fergrawe were mit 
militair Ehre. Es macht nichs aus was en Man is oder was 
er war uf dare Weld; im Grieg sin sei al gleich. Wan der Soldat 
fecht shulder zu shulder newich seine Kumerade dan frogt keiner 
was der Kumerad war. Er wais as es der besht Freind is as er 
hot in de Weld, un helft es Lewe bechutze. 



94 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Nau rugd der Brille Schmidt im en Land’s Kerich-hofif in de 
Berge wu er oftmols ferbei gange is. Wan die Leit ihn al fergesse 
hen wu ihn g’kent hen u.n’s lewe noch paar von seine Grieg’s 
Kumerade dan wert es net fergesse, un sel is recht un schoe 
un wie es sei sot. Die Sun scheind uf en Brille Schmidt sei 
Grab, un wan der Wind blos’d dan schwenkt en glainer Flag 
iwer sei Grab. So geht’s in de Weld. Unser Eldere kenne 
uns sage wu mir gebore sin ware, awer sie un die Weld kenne 
net weit fanne naus sage wie un wu as mir shtorbe. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


95 


DER BINE UF ‘N BERIG. 

Es is net weit von dreissich Yohr 
’As ich uf n Berig war. 

Die Natur is gleich in Mensch un Fieh 
Hund un Katz oder feder Fieh, 

Du nemsht sie fort oder losht sie frei, 

En unsichtbare Gewalt zeigd sie bei. 

Helling wu der Fader ist, 

Von Aug wu net alles sicht, 

In alle Natur wu ma’ dich find, 

Find ma’ es Aug wie’ n Kind. 

Sin mir im Dunkel oder Dages’ Licht, 

E’n ewich Gewalt ferlossd uns nicht. 

Was du sehnst bleibt bei dir, 

Wie en Reel von de movie Pictier; 

Berig un Dhal mit Baem grei, 

Felder, Rocks un fette Kieh, 

Reiser Hoff, grumbiere Shtick, 

Shtross, Crick, un shtaine Brick, 

War un is ’im Hern en dhail, 

Wu g’hoert zu de Mensche ihre Seel. 

Im Hern hab ich en Pictur uf de’ Screen, 
Wu dreht sich raus wie en movie Machine, 
’Sis summer un die Sun scheind hais, 
Hawi-macher die sin nass mit Schwaiss. 

Es Grass im Schwam leigd in de Rawi, 

Die Zeit is gud fer mache Hawi; 

Ich shteh im Schwam Owets am siebe, 

Un guck noch en Berig weit dort driwe. 




96 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Die Sun geht uner am Berig de hinner, 
Fershlupt sich, wie die glaine Kinner. 
Am Diehle Kop im summer shpot, 

An de Gap ’sis Winders roth; 

Un Yohr ei un Yohr aus, 

Gehet die sun am Berig naus. 


Hoch am Berig an de Mine, 

Shtet n langer gruner Bine. 

In Summer-Hitz un Winder-Keld, 
Is der Baum grii wie ’n Feld, 

Hoch sin die Nesht von den Bine. 
Der Shtorm is sie groeshter Feind. 


Allai un hoch is der Bine, 

Awer dorum sehnt er weit; 

Wan der Wind sie Nesht bedreft, 
Seift, er in sein Lainichkeit, 

Sei Shtam fer yohre is foil Kaft, 
Un aus de grosse for hockte Kaft, 
Lawft die wohlrichich Pine Saft. 


Die Saft is en Baum sei Blut, 
Gebt er fer de Miner ihre gut; 
Fer zuheelen ihre Wund, 

As sie griege unich ’n Grund. 


’N hocher Man wie ’n hocher Baum, 
Sei Lewenslauf is weit von zaum; 

Ihre Lewe do is shtormich gleich, 

Er is im Aug im ganse Reich; 

Un shpiert der Wind von all de Leit, 
As blose noch ihm nachst un weit. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


97 


Es Lewe von en grosse Mensch, 

Wie ’n griiner Bine im Busch, 

Sehnt ma’ do uf meile weit, 

Un werd bedracht fer alle Zeit, 

Die glaine Baem die sin forshlupt, 

Ihre Lewe ware net beguckt. 

Leit sin shoe’ un oft mols weisht, 

Mit shoene Korper un weishte Mind, 
Fielmols gross un doch so glai, 

Mit grosser Korper un glaine Mind. 

’N Man is glai un doch so gross, 

Mit en glainer Korpe un grossi Mind; 
Oftmols weisht un doch so shoe’. 

Mit weishte Korpe un shoene Mind. 

Glicklich is der wu hot 

En shoener Korper un en shoeni Mind. 



98 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DER FREDDIE GEHWEIDER 

Der Freddie Gehweider geht drei Meil zu de Maed. 
Nuf uf der Berig zu de dick Kate. 

Die Kate hot en Temper ihre Haor die sin roth, 
Der Freddie gebt nichs drum Haim geht er shpot. 

Der Weg wu er draweld is Berigich un lang, 

Awer wan er Nacht’s haim geht is er net bang. 

Just ai’ Nacht wie er haim geht von de Maed, 

Un la’ft allai un denkt an die Kate, 

’N Biskatz mit Hunger so schwartz as en Bar, 
Lawft mit ihn an de Shtross newe har. 

Er denkt des Dhier wu lawft mit mir uf de Erd, 

Ich fang’s die Haut is zu mir ebbes werd. 

No schleicht er hie, un nemt sie am Schwanz, 

Er hot hald awer hot sie net ganz, 

Des Dhier used uf ihn en shrecklich Gas, 

Der Freddie winsched er hat en Gas-mask. 

Er habt sie unich ’n Arm un f’rt sie dragt, 

Un zu de g’fangne Biskatz sagd, 

"Aide Katz mei Suit is fersaud, 

Awer griege dhun ich doch, dei schwartze Haut. 
Shtaricker wie n Zwiwel bist du in G’ruch, 

Was sage mei Freind wan ich sie b’such. 

Mei Suit wear ich net fer geh zu de Maed, 

Awer halde dhust du net, mich von meine Kate. 
Ich zieg dich ab, Leit weare dei Haut, 

Fer schonsht bist du nichs uf de Weld werd.” 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


99 


DIE COUNTY FAIR 

Es Yohr is rum, die Fair is do’, 

Es Wedder is shoe ’die Leit sin froh; 

Fiel Kinner hen mit Froehte g’wort, 

Un fer die Fair ihre Gelt g’shport. 

Fair Zeite fer Kinner sin rohr, 

Sie kumme just rum aimols yohr; 

An de Fair is Blessier fer grosse un glaine, 

Junge un aide, weishte un shoene. 

Confetti schmeisse Buwe un Maed, 

Wan sie ferbei gehne am folle Weg; 

An de Fair sin Gebeie mit Obsht un Fieh, 

Hinkel, Sei, un fette Kieh. 

Shoe’ sin selli Maed nau guck e’mol hie, 

Wie shoe’ is es Obsht un wie shoe’ is es Fieh, 

Fer bedracht zu sei hen sie al ken Chance, 

Mit en Madl wu smiled un lieblich glanced. 

Was die Leit sehne browier ich zu sage, 

Ich hoff ihr Leit dhune es glawe. 

War noch net an de Fair war fer die. 

Sag ich hertz oftich geh mol hie. 

Im Fair-grund zu sei des shtel dir mol for. 

Wan die Bletter farbich sin, im Shpote-Yohr. 

Un der Wind blost iwer die Hawer-Shtubble im Feld, 
Un lang branch ma’ net worde fer die Keld. 

Ma’ halt sich debei wan ma’ net ferlore will sei, 

Mir gehne nuf ans’ Poultry-g’bei. 

Dort sin Hahne wu laud sin am greye. 

Un Hinkel wu Prize griege fer Oier zu leye. 




100 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


Im Fair-grund sin die Fakirs an Meiler uf shpare, 

Im Fieh-Gebei sin die Kelwer am blare, 

Man un Fra’, un die Kinner, 

Begucke die Kieh, Kelwer, un Rinner. 

Dort shtet ’n Crowd am watche die race Geil, 

Es nemt sie net long fer zu shpringe en Meil, 

Foil mit Leit is der Grand-Shtand, 

Lushtich shpield die Allentown Band. 

Guck mol dort driwe wie seller Man is am greishe, 

Sie shtene dort rum wu ainer is am schmeise, 

Noch selm Schwartze mit ’n shpotiche Each. 

Iwer dem grickt er mol ains uf’s Dach. 

Die groue Schquarl den ganse Summer, 

Hen der Fair-grund g’hot dorich Rege un Dunner; 

Nau hocke sie uf de Beam un gucke runner, 

Un bore die Fair ihre mechtich Gedunner. 

Sie kenne net fershteh fer was die Leit in de Weld, 

Do hie kumme am Shpotyohr un shpende ihre Geld; 

Sie hocke uf de Beam owich en Beer-shtand, 

Un sehne die Leit wie sie ware g’drenkt. 

Sie sage “Was sin des awer dorshteriche Leit; 

Sie drinke yo Beer wie net g’sheit; 

Guck ’mol hie war kumt ’aus de Dhur, 

In de Hend sin Glesser foil shaumich Beer. 

Er kumt nau un recht’s ihne hie, 

Sie nem es un drinke die bitter schaumich Brie, 

Sie browiere zu lache un lushtich zu greishe; 

Un denke an die Zeit wu sie not browiere hen breiche.” 



MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


101 


In alcohol per cent, is es Beer nidder. 

Awer sis schaumich un als noch bidder; 

Ferleicht werd der Schaum bei Law geregulate; 

Er bringt de Leit als noch wenich Froeht. 

Die Schquarl gehne nuf an der Restaurant Shtand, 
Wu die Leit hucke uf hilsne Benk; 

Zu de Schquarl uf de Baem fliegt nuf, 

En abedidlicher Saur-kraut Geruch, 

Der Schquarel sag’d, 

“Seller hot’s Maul uf von Ohr zu Ohr, 

Was er ess’d last uns en Yohr; 

Awer was die Leit esse do will ich ken Biss. 

Except von selm sei Shtand mit g’roshte Grund-niss. 

Den Owet wan’s dunkel is neme mir en Pack. 

Wan mir ’n drage kenne nem mir ’n Sack; 

Mir misse Hawi mache wan die Sun scheind, 

Im kalder Winder sin die Niss unser Freind. 

Die Yohre gehne rum die Leit ware aid, 

Im G’sicht sin Sorge, sei misse neme was fallt; 

Sie kumme an die Fair as wie defor, 

Die Fair hen sie g’sehne manich Yohr. 

Es sin die Freind wu sie nau hoffe zu sehne, 

Fer sell is as sie noch der Fair gehne. 

Sie kumme noch de Fair, von Shtadt un Land, 

’Sis ’n Re-union fer die wu sin bekant. 

Sie drefe e’naner a’ von nachst un weit 
Un hen ’mol widder en herrliche Zeit. 

Heit fergesse sie Sorge, un sin am lache. 

Der Morge is shnell genunk do no sin sie am schaffe. 



102 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


Der Owet kumt bei die Sun is nidder, 

Die Freind winsche sie meete es nachst Yohr widder. 

Sie drifte mit de Crowd am Gate zu naus, 

Un hore weit leftich ’n menschlich G’raush, 

Von de Leit die Music, die Horner, die Drum, 

Sis nime lang bis die Fair is widder rum. 

Wan sie ’n alder Freind g’sehne hen dan war’s ’n Froeht, 
Sie Fiihle leichter am Hertz es schaffe leichter geht. 

Sie low'e die Fa!ir un sage’s laud, 

Die Fair war des Yohr g’wiss ihre Geld werd. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


103 


DIE INSCHE 

Die Weld hot drei brauchbare Blanze as unbekant ware defor 
die Auffindiing von America. Sie sin Grunbiere Welshkorn un 
Duwak. 

Wie der weiss Man es ersht mol der Inshe sehne hot shmoke, 
hot er ihn von Wunner a’ g’guckt. 

Wie er der Insch g’frogt hot fer was as er es dhet, sagd er, 
“Es shtopd Mudichkeit.” 

Die Leit wu Duwak use sin ainich mit en Insch. 

Der Man wu en Cigar oder die Peif shmoked noch en Esse 
wais was der Insch g’maind hot wie er g’sad hot “Es shtopd 
Mudichkeit.” 

Shmoke, oftmols gebt ’n Man ’n Fuhling von Zufriedenheit 
eb er in geishtliche oder korperliche Schmertze is. 

Fiel von unsere Soldate wu ware ferwund in Frank reich hen 
meh zufriede g’field wan sie g’shmokd hen. 




104 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


WELSKORN 

En aner werdful Korn is Welshkorn wu ma’ grigt hen von de 
Insche. 

War gleicht net seiss Welshkorn, ’Sis am beshte fer esse wan 
ma’ sich eibildt ma’ werd en Shquerl un hebt der Kolwe in die 
zwai Hend an es Maul un beisst nei. 

Welshkorn is en Ardickl wu arig brauchbar is zu de Mensche 
un Fieh. 

Noch en brauchbar Lebensmittel is die Grunbier. Die 
Deutsche bename sie Kartoffeln. Was dhete mir une GnJnbier 
Ma kan sie so fielwege zu rishte asma’ en lems mache kan, uf 
Grunbiere un Brod allai. Maniche arme Leit helft sie aus de 
Noth. 

Die nahrhafte Blanze, oder die wu en Mensch Trosht gewe, 
wore frem zu de Leit in de aide Lenner eb des Land g’funne war 
bei Columbus un die Explorers. 

Niemand wais wie lang as Grunbiere, Welshkorn un Duwak 
g’raisd is ware in America eb der weiss Man do war. Awer der 
weiss Man hot net selle Zeit un dhut a’ net heit sehne as ainiche 
vbn dene Blanze wild wachse. 

Eb es Duwak, Welshkorn, oder Grunbiere, sin es muss 
fershtane sei fer’s zu bauere. 

Der Grund muss luk g’halde sei un Sie dorfe net fiel Schatte 
hawe. 

Ungraut muss aus en Feld g’halde ware wan es wachse sol 
un Sume gewe. 

Der Burbank sagd das al unser Gemiis so wie Redich, Riewe, 
Zwiewele, un so fort werde al mol wild g’wackse in unershitliche 
dhail von de Weld, awer fiel glener un net so gud wie heit. Es 
hot dausende Yohre von Baure genume fer sie so gross zu bringe. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


105 


Wie fiel dausende Yohre wore die Insche am bauere bis die 
Crumbier un es Welshkorn so gross war. 

Der weiss Man hot es von ihne genume un hot’s ferbesserd. 

Wan ma’ denkt wie Armselich as die Insche ware fer im en 
Busch zu bauere, dan is es en Wuner as die Blanze net aus 
g’storbe sin. ’Sis en Wuner ’as sie genunk Welshkorn un 
Grunbiere g’hat hen fer Sume. 

Do ware grosse Hecke, Bish, un Wurzele im Grund un sie 
hen nichs g’hat als ’n Shtai oder en Sharifer Shtecke fer bauere. 

Die Insche hen nichs g’hat as Zelter, doch hen sie die Grun¬ 
biere g’halde as sie net ferfrore sin. Un es Welshkorn is a net 
ferderbe un war drucke bis es nachst Yohr fer blanze. In de 
Schule is ma’ als gelernt ware das die Insche hatte just gelebt uf 
Jage un Fishe. Die Insche hen ken Fieh g’hot fer zu fiedere un 
hen net so fiel Welshkorn g’breicht. Sie hen a ’ net g’bauerd fer 
ihre Products zu ferkafe. Es Land war net dick bewohnd bei 
ihne, aweres scheindaswie jader von de Insche, wie die Weisse, 
genunk g’hatte hen zu esse von bauere Lewesmitl. 

Die Weise hen als g’sad “ ’Sis jusht ai guder Insch un sell is 
’n Doter.” Es hot gude un schlechte unich ihne g’hat, 
wie es hot unich alle Klass Leit. 

Los uns net fergesse as sie die Weld net felosse hen une die 
Weld ebbes gebat. Wan mir Seiss-Welshkorn, oder Grunbiere, 
esse, oder use Duwak los uns net fergesse as mir die Ardickl 
net hatte wan’s net gewessd werd fer die Insche wu do gelebt 
hen dausende von Yohre eb mir do ware. 

Awer wu sin sie? Wu sin ihre Kinner? Sie hen ihre Land 
niwer gewe zu em Weisse. Awer net freiwilich. Sie hen g’fochte 
braflich fer ihre Land. 

Die Weld hot net fiel Speeche von de Insche un ich glab es 
sin gor kenne g’setzd in Pennsylvania Deutsch. Dorum dhut 
der Schreiber, en Insch bei en Name Witherford, sei Speech 
fersetze in denne Schproch. Wer war der Whitherford? 



106 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


In 1814 ware die Creek Inshce am fechte mit unsern Land. 
Der Haupt man von de Insche war en Man bei en Name Wither- 
ford. History sagd net war ihn en weisser Name gewe hot. 

Ma’ wisse just as er der Grieg ferlore hot. Die noch Folge 
ware alsferd gleich. Sie hen ziege misse. 

Unser Armee war unich ’n General Jackson wu nochdehand 
President is ware. Der Jackson hot en Witherford, Word g’shickt 
er sol sich iwergewe. 

Nau kumt en Witherford sei Speech, der antwort zum Jackson. 

WITHERFORD’S SPEECH 

Ich bin in deine Gewalt. Dhu mit mir was du wid. Ich bin 
en Soldat. Ich hab de weisse Leit al der Schaade gedhu as ich 
g’kent hab. 

Ich hab sie g’fochte un hab braflich g’fochte. Wan ich en 
Armee het, dhet ich als noch fechte, un fechte bis zum ledshte. 
Awer ich hab keni; mie Leit sin al fort. Ich kan nau net meh 
dhu as heile iwer die Ungelicke von meine Nation. 

Ai’ Zeit hab ich als mei Soldate bewegund zum Kampf; 
awer ich kan net die Dote lewendich mache. Mei Soldate kenne 
nime lenger mei Schproch hore. Ihre Knoche sin an Talladega, 
Tallushatches, Emukfau, un Topeka. 

Ich hab mich net g’fange gewe unbedenkt. So lang as Chance 
do ware fer g’winne hab ich nie net mei Poste ferlosse oder g’bid 
fer Friede. Awer mei Leit sin fort, un nau frog ich es fer mei 
Nation un mich selwert. Uf die Elende un Unglicke g’brocht 
uf mei Land guck ich zurick mit de schwerste Trauerichkeit 
un winsch zu ferhiete als noch grossere Unglicke. 

Wan ich gelossd war ware zu shtreite mit de GeorgianArmee 
dan hat ich mei Welshkorn g’bauert uf ain Ufer von Rewer un 
sie g’fochte uf ’n anere. Awer dei Leit hen mei Nation fernicht. 
Du bist en brafer Man. Ich ferloss mich uf dei Freigebichkeit. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


107 


Du dusht ken Terme fodere von iwerweldiche Leit, awer just 
soiche wu sie annehme sotte; welle as sie sei mage es wurd nau 
Nerrheit un Dumheit sich degege shtelle. 

Wan sie degegeshtelld ware dan findsht du mich unich de 
shtrengste zwinger von Bevolge. Die wu als noch aus halde 
dhete, kene just ‘n Eifluss hawe bei en boesser Geisht von 
Revenge; un zu des misse sie net un solle net es ledsht Uwerbleibsel 
sacrifice von ihren Land. 

Du host uns g’sad wu mir hie geh kende un sicher sei. Sel 
is ’n gud G’blauder, un mei Nation sot horiche dezu. Sei misse 
horiche dezu.” 

Es war en grosser man wu den Speech g’macht hot. Die 
weisse Leit in dem Land fergesse net die grosse Speeche von 
ihre Menner wie der Lincoln, Webster, Henry, Clay, un anere 
Shtaatsmenner, awer war kan sage der Name vion grosse Leit 
unich de Insche. Wie oft hot der Bifsch g’shalt wie sie g’rede 
hen fer Freiheit von ihren Land. Niemand wais es un niemand 
gebt ebbes drum. Die Insche sin g’falle un a’ die Baem im 
Busch un sell ware es End. 



108 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DIE SCHULE KINNER 

In de dunkele griine bletteriche Baem, 

Greishe die Hawer-gais, dort sin sie dehaim, 

Es Haus is gebutzd bei de Haus-fra’, 

Es Wedder is Kald die Schule fangd ’a, 

Im Tern hengt die Bell wie ’n Fogel im Nesht, 
Hire Kumpany im Summer is die Dreck-Weshp. 

Der Klang von de Bell is laud un klor, 

Un ferenerd sich net von Yohr zu Yohr. 
Kinner von Dhal un Kinner von Berge, 

Mit Boge roth im frishe Morge, 

Mit de Schule-bicher uf ihren Coat, 

Ruft sie noch de Schule net shpot. 


Die Kinner lerne un sie schpiele, 

Die Zeit geht rum, wu sie net fuhle. 

Wan sie heit ihre Lesson net sehne, 

Shpoeter Lessons kenne sie net fehle. 

Die groeshte Lesson wu sie noch lernne. 

Sin schmertzlich scharif wie die Dome, 

Sie finne sie heit net in de Schule, 

Un lerne sie a’ net bie ’e Rule. 

Die Weld is foil von alle sorte Leit, 

Wan ma’ sie kent dan werd ma’ g’sheit, 

Ma’ kan lerne von de gude, die g’sheite, die schlechte. 
Von de dumme kan ma’ lerne so wohl wie die beshte, 
Dref sie a’ no lernst sie kenne, 

Wer Feiier lernd handle dhut sich net brenne. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


109 


In de Weld sin Leit wu die Mensche betruge, 
Ehrliche Leit wu dhune net luge; 

Leit wu sin laud un anere rough, 

Dhail sin glat un b’sheise doch, 

War hendeld Grund hot an sich Dreck, 

Mit Souwere Glaider bleib aweg, 

No bleibe die Glaider weiss un shoe’, 

Wie Schwartzer die Weld wie weiser der Schnee. 



no 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


DIE SHPEK-MAUS UN DIE KERICHE-MAUS 

Der Dichter un der Bauer hen ’mol ai’ Owet im Summer 
uf en Bauer seine Porch g’hockt wie es dunkel is ware, un ware 
am blaudere, no fliegt en schwartzer Shtralle an ihne ferbei. 

Der Dichter hot net grad g’wisst was es wor no frogt er der 
Bauer, 

“Was war sell?” 

“Es war en Shpekmaus,’’ 
secht der Bauer. 

“Die Shpeckmaus is en keyose Dhier. Sie is ken Vogel doch 
fliegt sie. Ich hab a’ mein Lewe ken Nesht g’funne von ihre un 
ich wais net wie un wu sie ihre Junge uf die Weld bringe dhut.” 

“Wu hald sie sich uf iwer Winder?’’ frogt der Dichter. 

“Ich hab en ledste Winder aine g’funne hinich en Lade am 
Fenster sie hot g’hange am Fuss un war am schloffe.’’ secht der 
Bauer. 

Secht der Dichter, “Bei en Pennsylvania Deutsche Name 
g’hert sie zu de Meis ihre Familia.’’ “Der Name oftmols bedeit 
net fiel. Ma’ haisd en Ungeziffer wu flieght de Blume noch 
Fledermaus, ich bin sure as sie nichs zu dhu hot mit Meis. 

Die Englishe haise sie Butterfly; sie is ken Mick un hot a’ 
nichs zu dhu mit Butter. ’Sis Wunderlich wan ma’ denkt. Die 
hoch Deutsche haise en Shpekmaus Fledermaus.’’ secht der Bauer. 
“Well es hot dhail sorte Meis, do sin die Keriche Meis, die Feld 
Meis die Fledermeis, die Shpeck Meis un no die commone 
Meis.’’ secht der Dichter. 

“Los uns blaudere von de Shpeckmeis.’’ sagd der Bauer. 

“Worum?’’ frogd der Dichter. 

“Well, mol fer a’ Ding, in Meis ’sin ’sie es naechst in Evolution, 
zum Mensch.’’ 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


111 


“Waisht du as der Knoche-g’shtal von de Shpekmaus g’baut 
is wie im Mensch? Der Unerschiet is just in de leng un Dicking 
von de Knocke.” sagd der Bauer. 

“Es is all wunderbar. Am Owet wan die Mensche ruge, 
geht Sie naus un sucht ihre Lewe.” En rollender Shtai sommeld 
ken Moos. Wie es schiend zu mir will die Shpeckmaus ken Moos 
sommele bis sie dot is. Wie es schiend is sie zu fleisich am en 
Lewe suche fer Moos zu sommele. 

'‘Sie fliegt aimol do hie and anermol dort, 

Wie en Augeblick is sie fort. 

Sie used ihre Maul fer ’n Schnoge-fall, 

Ich Hoff sie grickt die Schnoge all.” 

Shprecht der D ich ter. 

“Sell is gud, Geb noch meh von selle Ord.” secht der Bauer. 

Shprecht der Dichter, 

“Wan die Sun hinich der Berig setzd, 

Un Dushbar fer uns macht, 

Dan geht der Schwalm in de ruh, 

Die Shpekmaus uf die yacht.” 

Es is Shpot ware no secht der Dichter, “Well ich denk es is Zeit 
fer uns in die ruh zu geh.” 

“Do host noch blendy Zeit. Du host nau die Shpekmaus am 
fliege, sag mir noch meh von ihre.” sagd der Bauer. 

Wort bis iwer Sundag, wan ich griege kan as sie die Keriche- 
maus b’sucht dan sag ich dir was for a’ gange is.” 

“Gud-nacht,” sag’d der Dichter. “Gud-nacht,” sagd der 
Bauer. 

Den nachste Woch dreft der Dichter un der Bauer einander 
a’ sie hen es gewohnlich G’spraech von Begrisse minander g’hat 
dan frogt der Bauer, 

“Well wie kumst du a’ mit de Shpekmaus?” 



112 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


“Gud, sagd der Dichter, awer ich hab sie lang net in die 
Kerich griege kenne. Net bis en Sundag wie ich die Keriche- 
bell ghoert hab is es mir bei g’falle wie ich sie nei griege kan.” 

Dan hab ich die Werde g’sad. 

"'Die Nacht is kertz die Auge sin drieb, 

Sie hoert die Kerich-bell, 

Nail shlupt sie in die Kerich nei, 

Eb der Dag werd hell,” 

‘‘Awer nau muss ich worde bis die nachste Sundag fer aus 
hniie was sie g’sad hot wie sie die Keriche-maus b’sucht hot. 

Fer sell aus zu finne mus ich selwert nei geh un die Keriche- 
maus froge.” 

En Woch is rum gange un wie der Bauer un der Dichter 
widder bei Enander ware, secht der Dichter “Ich war in de 
Kerich en Sundag un hab aus g’funne was g’sad is ware bei de 
Shpekmaus un Keriche-maus.” 

“Los uns es hare.” sagd der Bauer. 

Der Dichter fangd a’, 

“Ich bin ’n Sunday Owet in die Kerich gange un hab en Sitz 
genumme nachst an de Wand wu ken Weibsleit ware. 

Glei sehn ich en glai Meisel net weit von meine Fies. Es 
war noch fruh der Porre war noch net dort, no hab ich gud g’hert 
was des Meisel zu sage g’hat hot. 

Es hot wohl net laud g’schwetzd awer sei Gedanke hab ich 
gud fange kenne. 

Die Mans hot no g’sad das die Shpekmaus het sie b’sucht 
un es ersht Ding as sie g’sad hat wer des, 

“Ei du arme, arme Keriche-maus, 

Du lebst do hin as wie en Laus, 

In de Kerich do peepsd du rum. 

Von de Weld do bist du dum. 

Ich dien Leit, ich bin werd ful gud, 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


13 


Ich fang der Feind wu lebt uf Blut. 

Es is die fershtoche durshtich Shnog, 

Der Mensche-druwel,—der Merische-blog.” 

Just wie die Maus es g’sad g’hatte hot dan hen die Leit in de 
Kerich all so g’husht, awer es war glei widder bissel ruicher no 
frog ich die Maus— 

“Well, was host du no g’sad?” 

“Ei,” sagd sie, was ich g’sad hab war blendy. 

“Was ich g’sad hab war des, 

No fangd sie a’— 

Worum bist du benamd Shpekmaus, 

So arm selich derr 
Wu fliegt as wie ’n Blaat im Wind, 

Un sinloss wie ’n Nerr. 

Ich such un sommel, mei Kind es schloft, 

Net im Schorn-shtai Roos; 

Es rugd gud im e’ warme Bed, 

“Un hengt a’ net am Foos. 

Ich leb uf Bune un Oyster Soup. 

In dem Gottes-Haus; 

Wer sagd ich bin dum, wais net fiel, 

Von e’ Keriche-Maus. 

Du host wohl Fliegel, un fliege kansht, 

Awer bisht ken Engel, 

Du bisht ken Vogel du hengsht am Nasht, 

Wie en Traube-hengel. 

Im Gottes-Haus bin ich ruich, 

Un fershrek die Weibsleit net, 

Du bisht dum, du fliegsht do rum, 

Du aide ferlorne Bat. 



114 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


Du bisht ken Vogel, un bisht ken Engel, 

N Shand zum Name Maus. 

Du un dei Weiwel geht zum Deiwel, 

Un aus en Gottes-Haus.” 

“Wie sie des g’sad g’hot hot dan fangd der Choir a’ singe so 
weitleftich hinnich de Arigel. No hot sie shtill g’shtane un 
g’horicht fer ’n Minut; une en Werd meh g’sad geht sie die 
Aisle nuner gehich die Kanzel.” 

‘‘Was ihre Absicht war wais ich net. Sell war es ledsht was 
ich g’sehne oder g’hort hab vbn ihre oder die Shpekmaus.” 

“De Shpekmaus ihre B’such war arig interesaiit.’’ sagd der Bauer. 
“Du host recht.” ant worted der Dichter. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


115 


DIE ALDE LEIT 

Wer zweifelt die Weisheit von aide Leit, 
Wan Erfahring der besht Lehrer is, 

Weit zurick in aide Zeit, 

Hen sie g’frogt die aide Leit, 

Wan sie ware in de Not, 

Hen sie g’horiched uf ihre Rot. 

Fiel Yohre hen sie gelebt, 

Dorum sin sie en Wedder-brophet 
Die Signs von Wedder nemen sie enacht, 
Un aus ihne en Brophet gemacht. 

Die Gross muder is der Wedder-Brophet, 
Wu ehrlich is un Wedder fershtet, 

Im Winder guckt sie zum Fenster naus, 
Noch en Himmel wu der Mond is haus, 
Hinnich de Wolge nemt der Mond en peep, 
Noch de Weld dorich Glesser drieb, 

Im e Frame wu hald en Rim, 

As guckt am Himmel wie ’n geler Ring; 
An selm Ring so gross un shoe, 

Sehent sie ’n Sign fer Morge Schnee. 

Wan im froelich warme Summer, 

Die Sun geht am Owet u’ner 
Un scheind dreib un feiier roth, 

Der Dag is lang die Sun is shpot, 

‘‘Morge Rege” sell is die Zeit. 

Was sell owet Wedder bedeit. 




116 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Fallt er Morge fallt er heit, 

Ma’ kan den Rege net shtille, 

So war es Gester so is es heit, 

’Sis all Gottes’ Wille, 

Eb die Mensche heile oder Loebe brille. 

Ich lern net fiel von Wedder-signs, 

Ich sag awer was ich dhu, 

Fiel Dinge hab ich gelernt, 

Wie ich war en Bu’. 

N Shtarick ’r Wind un hard ’r Dunner. 
Mid von Dag im haise Summer, 

Des is en Sign un wert g’numme, 

’N g’witter Rege is am kumme. 

Wan du weit bist von en Dach 

Dan is es en Sign du wersht glei nass 
Die aide Leit ware hoch g’studierd. 

In was die Mensche in G’sundheit fuhrd; 

Die Ord was heeld in Greider, 

Sis niemand heit wu is g’sheiter. 

Hast Noo ralgia un ken Ruh, 

U n du wesht net was zu dhu, 

Mach en Poltis von haise Hoppe, 

Fer die Schmertze dir zu shtoppe. 

Der Wind blost kald un lossd die Hend, 
Roth weh un fershprengt; 

Shmier die Hend mit gans Fet; 

Den nachste Dag is alles aweg. 

Schlange un Sasafril Wertzel is arig gut. 
Wand’ schlecht fuhlshd un’s fehlt am Blut, 
Elm un Bluth von Holler-biere, 

Is Medicine ver schwache Niere. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


117 


Der Hals dhut weh un is faul, 

Schwenk der Hals un es Maul, 

Mit en Tee von weis-aiche Rinn, 

Rot ich dir ’sis beshte Ding. 

Bush, Balsam, un Winter-gru, 

Macht en guder suesser Tee, 

Ma’ fergradst die Hend un die Bai,’ 

Bis ma hot en grosser Hengel, 

Wu dragt ma haim an de Shtengel. 

Wan ken Krankheit zu dir fallt, 

Bist du jung oder bist du aid, 

Fuhlsh du gild in dein Bauch, 

Alle Medicin is gud wan ma’ net branch. 



118 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


N KALD FRIEYOHR. 

Ei, Ei, Ei, was is des n Sach, 

Die Grotte sin am greishe, 

Der Shnee leigd uf n Dach, 

Die Voegel sin do un wolle peife, 

Der gru Hoff is weiss mit Reife. 

Die Voegel wolle ihre Neshter baue, 

Awer dhune en kalde Wedder Net draue; 

Sie sin an ihren Muth ferliere, 

Sin bang ihre Oier ferfriere. 

Wan’s Wedder warm werd, dhune sie sich froehe, 
Un fuhle glei Oier zu lege. 

Wan’s Wedder bleibt windich kalt, 

Un der Shnee als noch fait, 

Dan bau ich en Incubator uf’s Dach am Haus, 
Wu bried ihne schon die Oier raus. 

Die Sun dhut ihre Shpite ans iewe, 

Sie macht die Baem de Knep raus shiewe, 

Der Wind nau hot sie al gegassd, 

Mit seinem harde kalde Blast. 

Die lem in ihre Kashte sagt, 

Un in ihren Hertz drin glabt, 

Wie gud warm-hertz ich is die Sun, 

Ich glab’ ich geh naus un such die Blum. 

Der Honich do is nime gud. 

Die warm Sun gebt mir Muth, 

Aus dem Kashte dhun ich fliege, 

Un browier mir frisher Honich zu griege. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


119 


Sie find die Blum un fillt der Leib, 

Un lebt aweil ’in Froelichkeit, 

Der Wind kumt bei un dreibt sie haim, 
Mit seine Keld zitterd er die Baem. 

Die lem sagd, “Er is net g’sheid,’’ 

Der Wind sagd, “Sis noch net Zeit,’’ 
Nau im Kashte sin dhail leme shteiff, 
Wu sage von de Sun war’s net nice. 

Awer sie ware am Honich in de Blum, 

In de warme Freiyohr’s Sun; 

Un so en Dag dhete sie net ferliere, 

Un dhete’s a grad widder browiere. 

Die Blum kan net in’s warme schluppe, 
Sie mus de Keld in’s G’sicht nei gucke. 
Sie leid schwer von de Reife 
Wie hard kan ma’ es net fergleiche. 

Awer die lem as ’n Cast war en Froeht, 
Sie hot de Blum ihre Sume geseht; 

Nau die arm ferfrore Blum, 

Wie es geht gebt sie nichs drum, 

Sie hot ferleicht zu fruh gelebt, 

Sel war net ihre Shuld, 

Sie hot ihre G’flicht gedhu in de Weld. 

Un is g’shtorbe in de Keld. 




120 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


DER YOKEL J. GRAW 

Im Land wohnt der g’duldich Yokel J. Graw, 

Im Aeland mit seine sheldiche Fra’; 

Sie Load is schwer un er sehnt ken End, 

Wu er sei Druwel het von seine Hend. 

Er considered un laft oftmols allai, 

As wie en Man mit e’ Load gross wie en shleiff Shtai. 

Es Freiyohr is do un er geht an der Dam, 

Wu die Weide-beam wackse im grune Schwam, 

Net weit hockt en Bull-frog and de gru Bank; 

Der Yokel hockt sich un seift un denkt; 

Wie gud hot der Bull-frog’s in de Weld, 

Er hot ken Fra’ wu rausd un sheld, 

Im Winder leigd er im Dreck un shloft, 

Summers huckt er an de Bank un loafd. 

Suesser Honich someld die fleisich lem, 

Sie shlupt in die Blum net weit von ihn, 

Sie fliegt un signd von Blum zu Blum, 

In de warme Freiyohr’s Sun; 

Was hot sie ’n shoene Weld, 

Sie kan lewe un branch ken Geld, 

N freigewiche Weld warm un sunnich, 

Gebt ihre Lewe mit suesser Honich. 

N Yokel sei Gans gehet naus zu schwimme, 

Sie sucht mit en Schnabel fer ebbes zu finne, 

Sie paddeld die Fies un lachd en Quack, 

Un schnabeld der Bull-frog in ihre Bag. 

N Bull-frog sei Lewe war glei fer iwer. 

’Sis besser glabt der Yokel wie er denkt do driwer, 

N sunnich Lewe un shneller Dot, 

Wie en Lewe von Druwell un in de Not. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


121 


N Fuchs kumt aus sein grundich Loch, 

Er hot gesse awer is hungerich noch, 

Er shpitzd die Ohre un shittld der Schwanz, 
Un dragt fort die unglicklich Cans. 

Der Yokel gehet haim un holt die Flint, 

Er scheisst der Fuchs wie er shpringt; 

Er nemt die Cans un geht ans Haus, 

Sie Fra’, is boess un kumt nau raus, 

Sie hot g’hoert die Flint wie sie geht loss, 

Nau gebt sie mit de Zung en Yokel ’n Dose. 
‘Ter was scheisst du die Cans” secht sie. 

Die Cans is dot jusht sehn e’mol hie, 

Du host ken Hern un ken Fershtand, 

Der groesht Fool, bist du im ganse Land.” 

Der Yokel secht nichs, sei Gedult war gross, 
Awer es war zu fiel, er ferlossd der Hoff; 

Er nemt die Cans un schmeist sie hie, 

Un geht noch en Shtettel un nemt en Shpree. 
Er is zu lushtich un actd zu gru, 

In G’fangniss ferlierd er sei Libertie; 

Awer er hockt in Jail un heftich singd, 

As wie wan der Mut net aus ihn gingd, 
‘‘Was is es doch en schoene Weld, 

Ma kan nau lewe une Geld, 

Ich bin aus de Hitz un aus de Keld 
Do is ken Fra’ wu rausd un sheld.” 



122 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DER ALD KESHTE-BAUM 

Der aid Keshte-baum shtet uf ’n Berig, 

Im griene sume Feld; 

Er is dot awer losd sei Marik, 

In de shtorblich Weld. 

Im Summer war er grie g’glaid, 

Bledderlos is ’r im Martz, 

Shpot yohrs war ’r im brau g’glaid, 

Nau weard ’r immer schwartz. 

Der Baum hot gewe von seine Frucht, 

Keshte seiss un brau, 

Die Leit hen ihn mit Froehte b’sucht 
Fergesse is er nau. 

Hoch uf ’n Nascht huckt ’n Grab, 

Dhail hucke in de Sowd; 

Kumst du naechst dan fliegt ’r ab. 

Von Keshte-baum wu es dot. 

En unglicklich Yohr is ’n Krankheit kumme, 
Es war die Keshte-blight; 

Un hot’s Lewe von de’ Baem genumme, 

As wie es dhut die Leit. 

Der Keshte-baum war fer Yohre b’sucht, 

Bei Kinner gross un glai’. 

Die braune Keshte hen sie g’sucht, 

Ken Keshte hen sie meh’. 

Den Baum sei Niss ware gross un shoe’, 

Mit Seek foil sin sie fort, 

Der aid Baum gebt ken Keshte meh’ 

’R is’ dot awer shtet noch dort. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


123 


Im Busch do rauschd der Keshte-wind, 
Same as wie defer, 

Sag mir wu ma’ Keshte find, 

Wan Keshte-baem sin’ rohr. 

In dem regeriche Shpot Yohr, 

Die Bledder falle runner; 

Awer Keshte-bledder finsht nime’ meh’, 
Mit Keshte une d’runner. 

Die Kinner gradle ken Keshte-baem nuf, 
F’r an die seisse Keshte; 

Sie mache a’ ken Shtochle uf 
Un beise in ken schlechte. 

Wan der Fader seim Bu ferzehld, 

Dan sin sei Ahre net zu; 

Wie sie hen die Keshte ferdhaild, 

Wie ’r war ’n Bu. 

Wie sie g’shmisse hen noch de legel, 

So gross as wie ’n Abbel, 

Mit Shtecke un Shtai, Rocks un Briegel, 
Was hot es als g’rabbeld, 

Nau winscht der jung Bu er hat gelebt, 
Im Fader seine Zeit; 

Was war es doch n Lusht un Froet, 

An de Keshte-zeit. 

Awer die Kesht-zeit is ferbei, 

Un kumt a’ nimme bei; 

Fer Keshte laise is es zu shpot, 

Die Keshte Baem die sin all dot. 



124 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DIE DRECHDER-BLUM 

O Drechder-blum, mei Drechder-blum, 

So wild hengst du in Fence-ecke rum, 

Blanze grii oder alder Junk, 

Wie lieblich umringd mit deine Rank; 

Sag mir, sag mir, fer was es is; 

Das du so fruh wacher bist; 

Du liewe shoene Drechder-blum, 

So glitserich frish in de Morgets Sun; 

G’glaid in Farbe n wunderbar Tint, 

Von Purple, Roth, Weiss un Pink. 

Ich bid dich horich was ich sag zu dir, 

Du bringst n seisser Trosht zu mir; 

N Fest bist du zu mein Aug, 

Mit froelich Hertz ich ferloss mei Klag; 

Awer gwickeld am Shtengel im Welshkorn-feld, 
Geht dei Shoe’hait ferlore zu de Weld. 

Endlich kumt der Bauer rum, 

Was shtet fallt um der Dot kumt rum, 

Mei Drechder-blum, mei Drechder-blum. 




MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


125 


DIE MOVIES 

Wan du bist in e’fremme Shtadt, 

Mit genunk zu esse un doch net satt, 

Du bist allai un host ken Freind, 

Awer host en unruiche blaue Mind, 

Geh un sehn en Movie-show, 

Dort is Kumpany wu is froh. 

Wan die Hairnet is en Shtub in de hohe, 
Wu is kald un wu bisht allai, 

Wan net wiasht was solsht dhu. 

In de Hairnet is ken Ruh, 

Dan geh du noch de Movie-show, 

Fergess dei Hairnet un sei froh. 

Lees en Buch fer n zeit ferdreib, 

En Buch is Kumpany es macht em g’sheit. 
Wan es Buch werd dir ferleet, 

Un langsam dir die Zeit rum geht, 

Geh in die dunkel Movie Show, 

Wu sehnsht nichs 
Wu net macht em froh. 



126 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


CEDAR BEACH 

Wan die Huns-Dage do sin 
Un ’sis schrecklich hais, 

Uf n Asphalt danzd die Hitz, 

As er waich is wie Kase; 

Wan die Hawer-leis an dir sin 
Wie en Hund mit de Flae, 

Dan sag ich dir wu hie zu geh. 

Nem en Allentown un Reading trolley Car, 

Er schutteld dich hie, er schutteld dich har, 
Iwer der Schwam, un iwer die Bruck; 

Er rabbeld fer bei am grumbiere Shtick. 

Shteig von Car an Cedar Beach, 

Dort is en Crowd wu is so laud. 

Am chumpe un lache un Fun mache. 

Geh ins Bad-haus un schlup in ’ne Suit. 

Un kuhl dich in selm Pool; 

Shpiel im Wasser wie Kinner in e’ Schule; 

Im Wasser lern Schwimme wie en glater Seal, 
Dort fuhld ma’ gud so leicht un kuhl. 

Fer was sot ma’ bezahle un weit geh, 

Noch en blaue unruiche See, 

Fer in’s Wasser bade geh; 

Es Wasser im Schwam is just glai, 

’Sis besser Fun wie bade im See. 

Sehn selle Blond im Wassser bade, 

Es Wasser is frish es recht an die Wade, 

Wie weider sie bad wie hoecher recht’s Wasser. 
Doch geht sie nei un werd als nasser. 

Aini glabt ’sis Fun un sie find’s aus, 

Fer hucke im Zuer mit de Bai’ henge haus. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


127 


Der Zuer is shtarick er werd net fershprenkt, 
Sie huckt im Zuer un rowed mit de Hend. 

Der Zuer fallt um Sie gebt nichs drum 
Sie bartzeld un kickt im Wasser rum. 

Wie frish is es Wasser der Wille nemt’s fort, 
Un macht em schnaufe im Wasser dort. 

Wie hard is der Afang bis ma’ brecht nei, 

Wan ma’ awer drin is dan fiihld ma’ fei’. 

Wer net schwimme lernt, 

Von Wasser bleibt bang; 

Un ferfehld die helfd Blessier, 

Sei gans Lewe lang. 

’N Bu lernt schwimme, in ainich Wasser-loch, 
Wan er aid werd schwimme kan er noch. 
Ferleicht is er shteiff, dick un fett, 

Awer’s Leib von Wasser fergesst er net. 

Fer die Aide, die Junge, 

Die Dicke die Dinne, 

Is nichs besser as im Wasser zu schwimme. 
Wan du hais bisht dan is es gud. 

Es macht dich kiihl es kiihld dei Blut. 

Es Wasser is en Medicin wu macht em jung 
Es rheinicht die Haut, 

Un shtaricht die Lung. 



128 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DER PROFESSOR KRATZKOP 
VON BASSUM DHAL 

Wie der aid Professor Kratz kop von Bassum Dhal uf die 
Weld kumme is dan hen die aide Leit grad gsad wie Sie ihn 
g’sehne hen, er dhet mol en hoch gelehrter Man gewe, wan er 
lewe bleiwe dhet. Awer sel war die Frog,-bleibt er lewe. Die 
aide Leit hen al g’sad, die gude shtorbe al jung. Sie ware all 
sure as er hoch g’lehrt ware dhet, weil sie hen al g’sad ma’ kent 
sel lerne an de Zeiche. Awer die Frog war bleibt er gud un 
shtorbd? Nau der aid Lehrkop war en Man wu die Leit g’sund 
gemacht hot mit brauche, un war en hoch geler’nter Man. Die 
aide Weiwer hen g’sad shick fer ihn, ’r kan sage was es aus en 
Kind gebt un eb er lang lebt. Es Kind war drei Yohr aid wie 
der Lehrkop ihn en Biwel, en Law-buch un en Fergrosserin- 
glass gewe hot. Die Biwel, uns Law-buch hot’s Kind shier 
net a’ g’guckt, awer im Vergrosserin-glass war es shtudendlich 
g’interest. Nau sagd der Brophet Lehrkop “Mir wisse al 
un die aide Leit sages al das die gude al jung shtorbe. Ihr sehnt 
mit euer Auge fer eich selwert das des Kind die Biwel net a’ 
guckt. Dorum sag ich es Kind werd aid. In dem Vergrosserin- 
glass nemt er grosse Indresse. Dorum sag ich er macht der 
groesht Scientist as noch gelebd hot.’’ 

No sage en Kind sie Eldere, “Was du sagshd glawe mir, er 
sol en Scientist sei’’; un en Scientist is er ware. 

Wie der Professor sewe Yohr aid war, hot er a’ fange Unge- 
ziefer shtudiere. Es ersht ware die Leis. Er hot glei sage 
kenne wie fiel Fies as en Laus hot. 

No hot er Experimente g’macht. Fer aus zu finne wie fiel 
as en Laus ziege kan uf en Ewene, bint er Shpinne-web an sie 
un macht sie ziege. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


129 


No hot er sie ziege mache uf unershitliche abhang. Er hot 
es al miner gemerikd. Der Table werd heit noch g’used in 
unsere Colleges. 

Es nachst Ding as ma’ g’hort hot, war er am Wanse unersuche. 
Awer er hot Druwel g’hat mit de Wanse. Alle mol as er sei 
grosse Mind un sei Fergrosserin-glass uf die Wanjs g’dreht hot, 
dan war die Wans so fergrosserd as sie g’browiert hot sich zu 
fershlupe. 

Sei hot er awer glei g’shtopd. Er hot sie no a’g’bunne. 
Nau es hot fiel Leit wu sage die Wanse batte die Weld nichs. 
Der Professor sagd net so. Er hot net g’browiert die Wanse zu 
ferdilge awer er geht dra un ferbesserd sie. Er geht dra un 
crossd sie mit de Feuer-Voegelier. Nau kan ma’ sie sehne 
Nachts. 

Lang eb ma’ ebbes g’wissd hot von Wacher-uhre mit uf 
g’leichte Hend un Numere, as ma’ Nachts sehne kan, hot der 
Professor Kratzkop paar von seine Wanse unich n Glass an de 
Uhr ihre G’sciht g’hat. Es hot ihn die Uhr gud uf g’leicht as 
er die Zeit gud sehne hot kenne. Es nachst Ungezeifer as der 
Scientist g’shtudierd hot war die Schnog. 

Wer hot noch net g’kickt im Summer wan es warm war un 
wind shtill, un en Schnog hore ihn in’s Ohr singe. Der Sang 
war’s ersht nidder un weidleftich, awer, is glei lauder were, bis 
ma’ alle Note fange hot kenne. Awer jusht wie ma’ es am laud- 
shte g’hort hot, dan shtecht ’n anere Schnog em in die Hand. 

Nau der Professor is an unersuche fer was as ’n Schnog sing’d 
zu em weil ’n anere em rawb von seim Blut. 

Er secht er is sure von ai Ding. Sie singd zu em so as es 
em die G’danke weg nemt von Shtich. Er kan awer net sage 
dhut sie es dorich Bedauerniss fer em oder dhut sie es weil sie 
bang is fer ihre Lewe zu ferliere. Es mag sei wei’s will. Wan 
n Man schoe singd un sei Kumerad rawbd em dan sin’s alle 
zwai ken Freind. 




130 


MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


Awer der Professor sagd seller G’sang von de Shnoge sot net 
ferlore geh zu de Weld, shtich oder ken shtich, debei. 

Ihre G’sang hot er g’amplified bis ma’ nan es hore kan bei 
Radio von ain End von Land bis ans aner. Sundag Owets gebt 
der Professor als Concerts mit bardiche g’trainde Schnoge. 
Er sagd die Schnoge kente gud un dhete gleiche zu singe des 
Lied. 

There is a fountain filled with blood. 

Er sagd es werd gewiss lieblich ab zu horiche wie seiss as 
die Jersey Musquitos singe dhete, 

In Jersey City where I did dwell 
A butcher boy I loved so well. 

So weid hab ich jusht dhail von Professor Kratzkop, der 
gross Scientist, seine Dhade benamd wu ihn en grosser Man 
gemacht hot. 

In en anere Sthory will ich noch meh sage. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


131 


DIE RING SEI 

Der Professor Kratzkop der Scientist gleichd so gud Sauer¬ 
kraut, g’kocht mit Sei-schwenz zu esse. Am en Sei-schwanz 
is net fiel Flaish un sel hot ihn die Idea gewe von en Breed von 
Sei mit dicke, lange, Schwenz. 

Es sin fiel Leit wu gleiche oxtail Soup g’macht von Ochse- 
schwenz; Fer was sotte net Leit ’n Soup gleiche von gude gref- 
tich Sei-schwenz, denkt er. 

Der Professor war en Man, wan er ebbes in Sinn g’hatte hot 
zudhu dan hot er net uf gewe bis es g’dhu war. Wie der aid 
Bauer Shtengel uf b’such war bei ihn dan secht der ProfeSvSor, 
“Wolle mol naus geh die Sei sehne.” “Yer,” sagd der Bauer, 
“Ich hab g’hoert von deine neie Breed Sei, die dhet ich mol 
gleiche zu sehne.” 

No sin sie an der Shtal, der Professor macht die Dhur uf un 
wie der Bauer nei guckt secht er, ”Ei der Shtal is yo lehr. Wu 
sin dan die Sei?” 

No sagd der Professor, ”Guck noch e’mol”. Fer en ewiche 
Bauer sei Wunner, sehnt er die Sei an de Ceiling henge an de 
Schwenz wie Monkeys. Die Schwenz ware so lang un dick as 
wie Monkey Schwenz. Sie hen g’hange an Shtange as der 
Professor uf g’dhu hot so as die Sei Exercise hatte. Die Schwenz 
hen alsfer en Ring g’hat wan die Sei g’logffe sin. Der Ring war 
so shtark as ma’ die Sei uf hewe hot kenne dra. Dorum hen die 
Sei der Name grickt Ring-sei. Es wais awer niemand wie der 
Professor so en Ord Sei g’raisd hot. 

Wie der Bauer ihn g’frogt hot, secht er, ’Sis zu scientific die 
Leit fershtehe es doch net wan ich es sag. Er hot awer net so 
en Ord Sei uf gezoge une Druwel. Wie die ershte Ring-Sei uf 
die Weld kumme sin dan is die Muder Sau g’shtorbe awer fer- 
leicht war es gud fer die Junge. 



132 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Es war en Case wie der Lincoln g’hat hot. Wie er President 
ware is dan hen so fiel von seine Freind ihn g’frogt fer Office-Chops 
no secht er zu dhail von ihne. 

‘‘Nai ich kan dir ken Chop gewe. Sin zu fiel Sei fer die 
Dids.” Sell ware die Sache in dare Case. En Professor sei 
Fra’ hot glei en Blan g’hot fer die junge Sei raise as sie net 
ferhungerd sin. Sie hot en Frame mache losse mit Lecher drin 
wu sie Bottele fol Milich nei g’shtelt hot unersht ewersht mit 
en Nipple an de Enner. Die Sei hen ihre Milich g’soffe un 
sin fett ware. 

Nau do war en glai Seili fiel zaumer wie die anere. Es v/ar 
de Mrs. Kratzkop ihre Pet. Sie ka’ft en Collar mit en rothe 
Bond-shlup fer des Seili. Awer wie kan en Seili en Collar 
weare wan der Hals dicker is wie der Kop. 

Der Collar war a’ glei im Dreck g’leye, un es war a’ net em 
Seili sei shuld. Nau geht die Fra’ dra un bind en Schlup in der 
Schwanz un selle Weg is als es Seiche ihre no g’loffe iwer alich 
wu sie hie gauge is. 

Die Fra’ hot alsfer Druwel g’hat wan sie noch de Kerich 
gauge is Sundags, fer von dem Seili weg kumme. Mol ai Sundag 
war sie in de Kerich der Porre war am bede, dan kumt des Seili’ 
an die Keriche-dhiir. Der Usher sehnt awer grad as es Seili in 
die Kerich will, un shtelt sich unich die Dhiir. Wan der Usher 
so fiel gewissd het von Sei dreiwe as wie von Leit an ihre Sitz 
neme dan het er g’wissd as ma’ net Sei zurick halde kan wan ma’ 
sich in der Weg shtelt. 

Well des Seili is ihn zwiche de Bai dorich in die Kerich. 
Der Abe Grisht wu g’sitze war am End mit seine Umberel wu er 
al’ferd gedrage hot sehnt des Seili die Aisle nunner kumme. 
Wie es zugleich war mit ihn nemt er sei Umberel fer es zurick 
jage, un der Ring im Hendle fang’d in de Sau ihre Ring im 
Schwanz in reist der Abe aus sein Sitz uf der Floor. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


133 


Endlich sin awer die Forshteher kumme un hen die Sau 
naus g’jagt. Sei hen g’wist wie. Wie die Kerich aus war hot 
der Abe Grisht g’sad zu de Mrs. Kratzkop der Deiwel werd in 
ihre Sau. 

Es hot sie net g’bassd un sie hot ihn en guder Hock gewe. 
Secht sie “Wan der Deiwel in mein Seili is dan hot er dich any¬ 
how grickt un uf en Floor leige g’hat.” Sel hot der Abe g’howe. 
Awer der groesht Druwel as die Ring-sei gemacht hen wil ich 
ferzehle. 

Wie die Sei groesser g’wackse sin dan ware sie net gud zu 
halde. Mit .ihre Monkey-Schwenz hen sie gud sich iwer Fence 
schaffe kenne. Mol ai Dag im Summer ware en Bauer Shtengel 
sei’ Kieh im Feld eiferich am fresse. Der Bull war a’ im Feld 
un war in gud Humor; dan dhune zwai von Professor seine 
Ring-sei sich iwer die Fence schaffe, un sin an ains von de Kieh 
ihre Eider gange un ware busy an saufe bis der Bull es g’sehne 
hot. Es hot der Bull grad ferzernd, er hot fermudlich g’denkt 
wanainicheMilichdowerddanwerd’sfer Kelwerun net ferSei. 

Die Sei hen mit en Schwanz gehich ihn g’shtane un der Bull 
mit en Kop drunne macht en Charge uf dei zwai Sei. 

Es is grad g’shene as er die zwai Horner in die Ring von de 
Sei ihre Schwenz gerent hot,. No is er im Feld rum g’shprunge 
wie weidich, mit de Sei an de Horner henge. 

Was g’shene werd wais ma’ net wan en Bull sei Horner net 
ab gebroche werde. Es hot en Law-action draus gewe. Der 
Bauer hot der Professor reshte losse fer Damages zu seim Bull. 

Er het ferleicht Damages bezahld grickt wan es net g’wessd 
werd fer en Bauer sei Lawyer. In sein Speech zu de Jury secht 
er, Er glabt net an Ring-sei, wan er sei weg het dan dhet er en 
iLaw mache as al die Sei ihre Schwenz ab g’shnitte sei missde. 

1 Nau uf de Jury war der Bauer Krautshtampel un wie der 
Lawyer sel gsad hot dan is en Schwartzi Wolk iwer en Krautsht 



134 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


ampel sei G’sicht kumme. Die Leit in de Court -shtub hen 
g’fiihld as wie wan en G’witter-rege koemt. 

Die Uhrsach war der bauer war en Nut fer Sauer-kraut un 
Sei-Schwenz. Fer en Lawyer zu sage er werd in Favor fer al 
die Sei die schwenz ab mache war en Ding wu der Bauer shier 
wiedich g’macht hot. 

Wie die Case in de Jury ihre Hend kumme is dan hot der 
Bauer ken Ferlusht grickt fer sei Bull. Er hot zehe Cent grickt 
fer die Milich as die Sei g’soffe hen. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


135 


DIE KESHTE-GAIS 

Per so en g’sheiter Man as der aid Professor Kratzkop war 
hot er net aus Druwel bleiwe kenne. Ma hot g’maind die wun- 
derbare Auffindinge in Biology un anere Dinge het ihn jushtmeh 
Druwel g’macht. 

Per en Beispiel war sei Keshte-gais. Wie es noch Keshte- 
baem g’hatte hot, dan war’s als en guder Weg fer zeitiche Keshte 
von de Baem zu griege, wan ma’ en grosser Rocks wedder der 
Schtam g’shimsse hot. No sin als die Keshte runner g’falle as 
es g’rabbeld hot. 

Des hot als de Baem ihre Rinn fershune. Nau geht der 
Professor draun raisd en Gaiswu Keshte-beam bumpt. Sell war 
net so hard uf de Baem. 

Mol ai Dag is awer der Gais in sei Ebbel Bungert g’broche 
wu so grosse Ebbel uf de Baem g’hange hen. 

Die Baem ware am Berig g’shtane. En Puhr-weg war une am 
Berig, un wie der Gais en Baum g’bumpt hot is ains von seine 
grosse Ebbel, so gross wie en Wasser-melon, von Baum g’falle 
un is en Berig nunner g’rolld. 

Es is g’shene as an selle Zeit jushtder Hiram Immerdig ferbei 
gange is uf Puss. Wie der gross Abbel der Berig nunner rolld, 
dan bounced er iwer die Pence in die Shtross un dreft der Hiram 
in die Ribbe. Es hot ihn unmechtich g’shlage. Wie lang as 
er in de Shtross geleye hot wais er net. 

Nau do war der Jake Derr wu net weit aweg g’wohnt hot; 
sei Welsh-hahne war ’rgens am brie’e un der Jake war jusht 
selle Zeit am suchefer sei Nesht zu finne. Wie er ande Shtross 
hie lawft un guckt in die Pence-ecke rum fer’s Nesht zu finne 
sehnt er der Hiram in de Shtross leiye. Er geht Haim un 
shpanddie Rose in der Shprings-wage un fahrd der Hiram Haim. 



136 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Es war jusht an de Middag-shtund wie er an sei Haus kumme 
is. Die Fra’ hot g’kochte Riewe g’hot fer Middag-esse. 

Der Jake hot sie net fershreke wolle mit seine unglickliche 
Berichte un war am kunsidere wie er ihre die Berichte gewe sol. 
No secht er zu ihre, ‘‘Ich hab ken gude Berichte fer dich, awer 
fershreck net, dei Man leid do im Wage un is weh gedhu, awer 
er rugd gud un shcloft.” 

No sagd sie, 

“Ich glab’s net du bisht am foole.” 

“Yo” sagd er “guck in der Wage wan du es net glabsht.” 

Wie sie ihre Man g’sehne hot secht sie, 

“Ei nau geht es Esse ferderbe; Ich hab en gud Middag 
g’kocht, nau kan er es net esse.” “Host du schon Middag g’hat?” 

Wie sie des g’sad g*hatte hot dan kumt der Hiram zu sich. 
Wie die Fra’ sel sehnd fangd sie bitterlich a’ weine. 

Sie hen awer der Hiram in’s Bett geschaft un hen g’schickt 
fer der Doctor. Wie er der Hiram unersucht hot secht er. 
“Der Man hot drei Ribbe ferbroche. Er muss sich ruich halde 
as er net g’excite werd.” No gebt er en Bottel Medicin fer der 
Hiram un ferlossd. Der Hiram is besser ware jusht Nachts is 
er als ferwerd ware, un no hot er nichs g’schwetzd as wie von 
Gais. 

Er hot no g’maind es werde als noch Gais hinnich ihn. 

Mol ai Dag secht er, Do lieg ich un war net besser. Ich 
hab noch alsfer un glab heit noch an brauche. Shick fer der aid 
Shpinnerhut. Er kan meh dhu wie ainicher Doctor. No hen 
sie der Shpinnerhut grickt. Der Hiram hot ihn g’sad er dhet 
als ferwerd were un maine die Gais werde hinich ihn. 

Der Shpinnerhut sagd no, “Selli Gais wol mir schon shtope.” 
Hasst du der Gais?” 

“Hasse,” sagd der Hiram. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


137 


‘‘Seller Gais lebt nime lang wan ich mol widder uf die Fies 
kum.” 

Der Braucher gebt ihn no en Treatment. 

Er is mit de Hand iweren Hiram sei Ribbe g’shtriche, un druf 
g’blose, un sachte die Werde g’sad, 

“Die Wund is weh, 

Sie sol weg geh, 

Shnell sol hoehle die Ribbe, 

Grotte Zeh un Hinkel-bai 

Sol den Gais fershticke.” 

Wie der Braucher fertich war sei Treatment gewe, dan frogd 
em Hiram sei Fra’ was ihre Man esse deift. Eb mir weider 
gehne will ich sage as en Hiram sei Fra’ g’recheld war die besht 
Koch uf weid un broet. Sie is fiel g’frogt were fer koche an 
Leichte un Keriche-suppers. Sie hot Delicates mache kenne 
wu niemand schonsht g’wissd hot wie zu mache. 

Sie is als im Frieyohr in der Schwam gange, wan es Biskatze- 
kraut aus en Boden kumt, un hot es besht Gemies defo g’kocht. 

Der Hiram hot als so gud ihre Dishdfle-salad gegliche. Der 
Braucher hot g’sad er deift es esse awer missd die Shtachle raus 
mache un deift kenni schluge. 

Wie sie g’frogt hot eb er Clams esse deift, secht er, 

“Clams sin arig rich, Wech shaliche Oysters werde besser, 
weil er kent die Shaale schluge un es dhet ihn nichs. 

Er kan die Brieh von Clams hawe, awer er Sol ken Grane 
schluge.” 

Der Hiram is awer als schwecher ware. Es war im October 
der Dag war sunnich wie der Hiram geleye hot in Bett. 

Er hot nichs von sich gewissd un sei Fra’ hot ken Hoffning 
g’hatte fer ihn. Der Braucher war dort un hot ihn net helfe 
kenne. Awer wie g’sad derDag war schoe’ un die Dhiir war uf; 



138 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


niemand hot g’hoert as der Gais in’s Haus kumt. Wie er unich 
die Dhiir kumt dan macht er B-’a-’a-’a. Nau der Hiram war im 
Bett geleye wie en Doter. Wie er awer der Gais g’hoert hot dan 
is er lewendich ware un hot Grefte grickt as ma es shier net 
glawe hot kenne. Er hot sich uf g’hockt im Bett un g’browiert 
fer an der Gais zu geh. Sie hen ihn awer ruich gemacht un der 
Gais naus g’jagt. Noch selm is er shtark besser ware. Die 
Leit hen g’sad es werd der Gais gewessd wu sei Lewe g’saft het, 
un net der Braucher. 

Es war gud zu fershteh. Der Gais is in’s Haus kumme 
grad an de rechte Zeit. Wie en Hiram sie Lewe so nidder war 
as die Hoffning al war, hoert er der Gais blare. 

Sie Shpite iwer der Gais un sei shtarki Nadur hot ihn so fiel 
Grefte gewe as er sich uf g’hockt hot im Bett. 

Es war a’ grad an de rechte Zeit noch selm is er besser were. 
Er hot sei Shpite iwer der Gais ferlore, weil er hot g’sad der Gais 
het ihn g’cured. 

Er hot als g’schwetzd von der Professor Kratzkop fange 
losse, wu der Gais g’aignd hot, awer glei noch selm is der Gias 
an sei Waterloo kumme. 

Der Shtengel war am Grunbiere aus mache, der bauere 
Wage war im Grunbiere-Shtick wu die Leser als die Grunbiere 
nei g’lese hen; dan sehne en Shtengel Sei Buwe der Gais ins 
Grunbiere Shtick kumme, fer Grunbiere fresse. 

Die Buwe hen jusht en Bushel-korb foil in Feld shteh losse 
un fer der Gais recht boess mache, hen sie so glaine runde Shtai 
wie g’guckt hen wie Grunbiere uf der Korb g’legd mit de Grun¬ 
biere. Der Gais hot g’maind es werde Grunbiere un wie er nei 
beist ferbrecht er en Zah. 



MILLER'S PROSE AND VERSE 


139 


Awer sel war net es schlimsht. Sie hen no en Rock un Hut 
iwer die Deixel von Wage g’henkt, un hen sich in der Wage 
fershteckld un g’macht wie en Gais. Ba-a-a. Wie der Gais 
sel g’hoert hot guckt er rum un wie er sehnt der Rock un Hut 
iwer die Deixel von Wage, maind er es werd en Mensch. Er 
macht en Charge, un shpringd wedder es End von de Deixel, 
un hot sich es Hohrn raus g’shprengt. 

Die Buwe hen g’sad es het den Wage recht g’shn’rt awer noch 
selm het der Gais sich nime feraigt. 



140 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


DREI-ECKICHE OIER 

Der aid Kratzkop der Scientist hot de Haim am Offe ghockt 
un war an de Peif shmoke weil die Jane sei Fra’ war am Dish 
g’shtane am Seisskuche backe. 

Der Scientist hot die Seisskuche so gud g’gliche; awer fer 
Seissckuche backe nemd es Oier. Die Jane, sei Fra’, war just 
am Oier uf schlage in ’ne erdne Schissel, un hot unbedenkt en Oi 
uf der Dish gelegd, un wie sie am Oier glebere war dan rolld sei 
Oi von Dish uf der Boden um hot sich aus Shape gefalle uf en 
Linoleum in de Kich. 

Der Hen hot’s Oi sehne rolle un hot gemacht as wan ’r sell 
Oi fange wod, awer bis er hie kumme werd het en dutz end Oier 
runner falle kenne. 

'‘Dort leid’s in Shtiggere,” sagd er, “un die Oier sin dheiier. 
’Sis shaad.’’ 

Die Jane war just am Lumbe grieye fer’s Oi uf butse no 
secht der Scientist, “Word ich ruff der Ponto rei, los ihn’s uf 
shlecke.’’ 

Der Ponto war sei schlafericher Hauns, wu uf de Porch 
geleye hot in de Sun un war am schlofe. No geht der Man 
an die Dhur un ruft, 

“Here Ponto kum mol rei.’’ Der Ponto is so langsam uf 
g’shtane un is nei in’s Haus. Der Scientist weist ihn es Oi 
awer der Ponto, hot’s so shep ’a g’guckt un bissel dra geruche, 
as wie wan ’r bang werd fer wedder zu kumme mit de Naas. 
No geht der Man hinne bei un legd die Hand uf sei Kop un 
drickt n Hund sei Nass bissel uf’s ferbroche Oi. 

Nau war en Hund sei Naas fershmeard un nadurlich hot er 
sei Nass g’shlecked fer sie butse un do debei hot er a’ sei Oi 
fersuchd. 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


141 


Wie er awer sel Oi fersuchd g’hatte hot dan shitteld er der 
Schwanz so bissel, un fanged a’ sel Oi uf zu shlecke un hot net 
uf gewe shlecke bis nichs meh do war von Oi un bis es Linoleum 
geguckt hot als wie neii wu es Oi geleye hot. 

All die weil war die Jane sei Fra’ am Oier glebere un der Ponto 
hot dort g’shtane un nuf g’guckt fer noch meh Oier. No secht 
die Jane “Geh naus du grigsht nime meh Oier. Sie sin zu 
dheiier fer dir zu gewe. Wie sie des sagd, macht sie die Dhur 
uf un der Ponto geht naus. 

No sagd sie zu ihren Man “Waisht du was?” “Du host seller 
Hund Oier fresse gelernd.” ”Ich denk net” sagd der Man 
“Ich glab as er es fergessd.” “Wan er Oier shteld dan is es dei 
Schuld.” sagd die Fra’. “Du hatshd a’ besser acht gewe kenne 
no werd sel Oi net runner g’falle von Dish.” sagd ihre Man. 
Fer was kan ma’ ken drei eckiche Oier raise? Du bist alsfer 
am browiere an neue Dinge aus finne. Du host neue Sorte 
Hmkel, fer was kanst du net mache as sie drei eckiche Oier 
lege. Denk mol dra’ wie hendich as so Oier werde. Ma’ kent 
sie uf der Dish lege un sei dhete net runner falle,” sagd die Jane. 

Drei eckiche Oier, denkt der Scientist. Sell werd gewiss 
en gud Ding. 

No hot er dort ghockt un war am denke un hot nichs meh 
g’sad. 

No sechd die Jane, “Du brausht awer net alle weil shon 
dort sitze un considere. Mit dem as des Oi ferbroche is dan bin 
ich’n Oi kertz. Ich hoer die Hinkel am gagse, es hot gewiss ains 
gelegd. Geh naus un hoi mir ains rei.” 

Der Hen shtet uf von sein Shtul un geht naus an der Hinkel- 
shtal. Wie er hie kumt dan sehnt er der Ponto im Shtal., am 
browiere die Oier unich ains von seine beshte Kulcke raus neme. 

Awer es war n everlaying Kluck as uf selle Oier g’hockt hot. 
N everlaying Kluck kan ma’ just bei Force von de Oier neme. 



142 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Solche Kluck is shy wan sie net am brieh is, awer wan sie uf 
Oier sitzd dan is sie net bang fer n Elephant, oder der Deiwel 
selwert. 

Nau hot sie uf selle Oier g’hockt un als ’n Ponto noch de Auge 
g’pickt alle mol as er nachst kumme is mit de Naas. 

Die Federe hen in die hoehe g’stahne bis sel Hinkel g’guckt 
hot as wie wan es uf g’blose werd. 

Wie der Scientist g’sehne hot was der Hund will dan kickd 
er noch ihn un jagd ihn aus ’n Shtal. Es hot ihn g’druweld 
as der aid Ponto Oier fressd awer er hot sich selwert g’blamed. 

Es is just zwai Dinge zu dhu wan en Hund Oier fressd, un sel 
is en abgewehne oder en zu schiesse. 

Der Hen geht nei in es Haus un sagd de Jane er het der Ponto 
ferwishd am Oier fresse. 

“Ich hab dir es g’sad.” sagd sei Fra’. “Well,” sagd er, 
“Ich gleich net der Ponto zu schiesse ich muss ebbes dhu fer ihn 
ab g’wohne von Oier fresse.” 

Er hot no die aide Cures g’browiert so wie rother Peffer in 
’n Oi zu dhu; awer der Ponto hot jusht wenich dra geruche un 
sel Oi sei g’lossd. Alle gebot sin Oier weg kumme no war 
jusht meh zwai Dinge uf n Scientist seine Mind. Es war 
entweder e’n drei-eckich Oi zu raise oder der aid Hund schiesse. 
Er hot g’glabd ’as er der Ponto cure kan von Oir fresse mit 
socihem Oi. Ihn schiesse hot er net wolle. Awer wie sol er n 
drebeckich Oi raise. Er hot als am Offe g’hockt un net fiel 
g’sad fer ’n Woch. 

No geht er dra un dhut dhail von seine Hinkel uf en Diet. 
Er hot ihne von sein’ Hinkel-compound g’fiedered. 

Niemand hot gewissd von was es g’macht war. Er hot so 
fiel von dene drei-eckiche Brazil Niss oder “Nigger-toes” kaft un 
die leid hen gemudmosd er dhet’s seine Hinkel fiedere. Awerdoch 
hen sei Hinkel ken drei-eckiche Oier g’legd. Der Druwel war 




MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


143 


die Niss ware zu gross. No secht er zu de Fra’. “Ich wais nau 
was letz is as die Hinkel ken drei-eckiche Oier lege. Sie misse 
uf ebbes g’fiederd sei wu drei-eckich is un wu sie gahs schluge 
kenne.” 

No secht er, “Die Brazil Niss sin zu gross fer die Hinkel gans 
zu schluge. Waisht du ken Fuder as sie gans schluge kenne.” 
“Nai,” sagd sei, “ich du net.” Der Scientist hot no so hard 
gedenkt an Hinkel bis er Nachts nightmare grigt hot. Oft mols 
hot sei Fra’ ihn wacher g’macht as er am draume war von drie- 
eckiche Oier. Mol ai Nacht shtet er uf un secht, “nau hab ich 
es, ich hab’s.” 

Sei Fra’ hot g’maind er dhet grad dort sei Fershtand ferliere. 
No secht sie, “Hen was is letz?” 

“Gor nichs” secht er, “Ich hab g’draumd mei Hinkel werde 
im en buch-waize Feld am Buch-waize fresse. Waisht du net 
as en buch-waize Korn schwartz is un drei-eckiche, ferleicht 
so lang wie ’n waize Korn. Nau wan mei Hinkel Buch-waize 
fresse un ich fieder ihne mei Compound dan lege sie drei- 
eckiche Oier. Hurrah!” 

Den nachste Dag hot er seine Hinkel Buch-waize g’fiedered 
un sei Compound, Sei hot er a’g’halde fer ’n Woch. Mol ai 
Dag hockt er am Offe no fangd ’aen Hinkel so laud gagse im 
Shtal. Es hot so lang un so laud g’gagsd bis die Grabbe uf en 
Berig afange hen Angsht griege un hen e’nan’er g’antwort. No 
sagd die Jane, “Geh mol naus, ’sis ebbes hinnich de Hinkel,” 
No geht der Hen naus un geht in der Hinkel-Shtal; er guckt in 
ains von de Neshter un fer Sei ewiche Wunner dort leid n drei- 
eckich Oi so schwaftz wie en Coal. No nemt er sei Oi un geht 
in’s Haus un weist’s seine Fra’ un sagd Guck mol do was ich 
hab in de Hand. 

Heit bin ich der herrlisht un der groesht Man im Land. 
Denk mol dra was des maind, Oier wu net rolle, des is en Ardickel 



144 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


wu die Weld shon lang g’braucht hot. Es is a’en sure Cure fer 
der Ponto. Er fresd kens von denne Oier, Wan er dhut dan 
is es ersht un es ledsht mol.” 

“Nau glab ic,h bal as ma’ ainich ebbes dhu kan wan ma 
browiert.” sagd sei Fra’. 

Sie hen no der Hauns nime g’watchd. Der Scientist hot 
g’sad ”Los ihn jusht ains von meine drei-eckiche Oier fresse.” 

Der Ponto war so nerrish iwer Oier wie er naus geht in der 
Hinkel Shtal sehnt er des schwartz Oi leiye. Er hot’s net 
ferbeisse kenne weil sie hen en Shaal so hard wie ’n Walniss. No 
geht er dra un schlugt des Oi gans. Selli Nacht hot der Hund 
Schmertze grigt. Er hot als shier g’brilld wie en Loeb. 

Die Leit in Bassum Dhal ware al wacher un hen g’wunerd was 
letz werd. Der Scientist hot ’n Ponto en Bottel fol Castor-oil 
ei g’shit. 

Bis Morgets war der Hauns ruich un hot g’shloffe. Der 
Hauns war g’cured von Oier fresse. Wan ma’ ihn en Oi hie 
legd dan guckd er es so shep a’ un nemt en Ungraes drum rum. 

Awer die drei-eckiche Oier hen a’ ihre unhendiche Points. 
Ihre Shaale sin so hard die junge Hinkel kenne sich net raus 
picke. Die Kluck kan sie a’ net ferbreche. Wan die Oier drei 
Woche unich de Kluck ware dan muss ma sie ans Ohr hewe un 
horiche. Wan ma’ hort die junge Hinkel picke an de Shaal fer 
raus dan muss ma der Hammer neme un die Oier ufglobe. Die 
aide Kluche gleiche a’ net uf so sharife Oier zu hocke. Ma’ kan 
sie a’ net blame. Awer der Scientist hot en bardich nesht 
g’macht wu die Oier im e Grawe leiye wie im en Sei-trog. 

N Correspondent von Liegeberger Retcher war bei iem, un 
wie er der Scientist g’frogt hot was in selm Compound werd as 
die die Hinkel drei-eckiche Oier leye macht, Secht er, “Es 
is zu scientific die Leit fershtehne es doch net wan ich es sag.” 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


145 


Sei Fra’ hot awer g’sad er sot sei Secret zu de Weld gewe ma’ 
kent net wisse was es gewe kent. Wan ihre Man shtorbe dhet 
dan gingd der Secret ferlore zu de Weld. 

Der Scientist sagd awer net fiel, jusht des h|ot er g’sad. 

“Wie ich als n Bu war dan hen sie mich n Redsil g’frogt. 
Es war, Was is drie-eckiche iwer der See kumme? Wan ich g’sad 
hab ich wissd net dan hen sie als g’lacht un hen g’sad ‘Ei en 
Buch-waize Korn.’ 

“Ich shick ebbes iwer der See drie-eckich groesser wie n 
Buck-waize Korn, Nau wan sei Fra’ am Seisskuche backe 
is dan hockt er de bei mit en Hammer un en aid-fashioned Bigel- 
eise un is am Oier uf globe. 

Der Ponto kumt net nachst; un es rolle ken Oier meh von 
Dish. 



146 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


EN PROFESSOR SEl COMPOUND 

’N aide Kratzkop sei Experiments in Gartnerei sin hpchlich 
interessant. Es hot fiel Leit wu behaupte er werd n groessere 
Man wie der Burbank. 

Fiel von seine grosse Sache wu g’scheind hen unmoglich zu 
sei, sin aus g’fuhrd ware bei ihn in G’fahr zu sein Korper. 

Zum Besipiel, en Bungert von Ebbel-baem wu er g’blanzd 
hot war unfrucht-bar, die Baem ware glai un sin net g’wackse. 
Es ersht Ding as er gedhu hot war, browiere ebbes zu finne fer 
die Baem wackse mache. 

Er hot n Compound in paar Dag g’hat un fer aus zu finne wie 
es schaft uf Blanze, browiert er’s uf die rankliche Ivy wu newe 
am Haus g’hanke hen, Nau der aid Professor war en Man wu 
gud schlofe hot kenne. 

Im Summer hot er sei Fensther halb wegs uf g’hot, sei hot sei 
Schlof-shtub kiihl g’halde; awer er hot so laud g’schnarchsd, sei 
Fra’ hot er wacher g’halde un dorum hot sie in ’ne anere Shtub 
g’schlofe. 

Uf en schoener sunicher Dag denkt er es werd en gude Zeit 
fer sei Compound browiere. Am Mittage dhut er en gud Moss 
an die Wurzel von de ivy Shteck am Haus, un hot sich nichs 
meh bekimert drum selle Dag. Er hot g’glabt.in paar Dag dhet 
er die Folge defo sehne. Selle Owet geht er ins Bet un hot es 
Fenster uf wie g’wohnlich; er war mud un is glei eig’shlofe. 
Gege Morge hort sei Fra’ ihn schnarckse, awer sie hot g’maind 
es dhet net nadiirlich laude. 

Defor hot’s als g’laud as wie wan sie Riewe koche dhet. 
Awer des hot shier gor g’laud as wie wan Voegel dorich die Bletter 
von de Beam fliege dhete. No is es ihre bei g’falle ferleicht werd 



MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


147 


ihre Man am fershticke. No shtet sie uf un geht in sei Shtub. 
Wie sie die Dhur iif macht grigt sie die groessd Ershtaunen von 
ihren Lewe. 

Dort hot der Man geleye im Bett un war zu g’willd mit 
griene Blotter von Ivy wu zum Fenster nei gVackse ware. Sie 
hot gor nichts sehne kenne von Professor. Er war als noch am 
schlofe sie G’sicht, die Bed-poshte, un ewen die Shtuhl ware zu 
g’rankd mit Ivy. 

Wie er als g’schnauft hot dan hen die Blotter owich sein 
G’sicht g’wackld bis sie hie gange is un hot mol dhail von de 
Blotter un Ranke aus sein G’sicht g’risse hot. 

Sie hot awerno gradg’sehne as sie jusht in Zeitwar shonsht 
werd er fershtickt. Es ware schon edliche Ranke in sei Maul 
g’wackse. Bei dies Zeit war der Professor wacher. Wie er die 
Auge uf macht unsehnt alles mit griene Blotter um ihn rum dan 
sagd er, “Wu bin ich dan?’’ “Sis doch noch net Grishdag?’’ 

“Nai,” sagd sei Fra’, “du bisht im Bett; sei froh, sehn mol 
hie was dei Compound gedhu hot.’“ 

“Hurrah?” greisht er un will aus en Bett shpringe awer dhail 
Ranke hen sich an sei Zehe g’wickeld g’hat un dhail um sei 
Enkel rum weil im Summer hot er alsfer net die Fies zu g’deckt; 
wie er uf shpringt hewe die Ranke ihn un er fallt uf der Floor as 
es g’bumt hot. Awer er war so froh as sei Compound so gud 
schaft, as er die Schmertze von sein Fall net g’fiihld hot. 

Er hot sich awer glei aus de Ranke g’risse un is naus an es 
Haus un schneid der Shtuck ab nachst an de Wurzel. No sagd 
er zu seine Fra’, Nau will ich mol sehne eb mei Ebbel-beam im 
Bungert net wackse.” Er hot no just meh an sei Ebbel-baem 
g’denkt, un die Ivy gans fergesse. Den nachste Owet hot es 
g’regert, no macht er sei Fenstere zu eb er ins Bet geht. Es war 
alles al recht, bis dan nachste Morge, wie die Fra Breakfast 
mache hot wolle dan hot der Offer a’fange shmoke bis die Kich 
un es gans Hausfol Shmoke war. Der Professor is uf g’shtane 
un hot mol g’guckt was letz werd. 



148 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


Er hot der Dekel uf g’macht un in der Offe g’guckt awer er 
hot nichs sehne kenne as Shmoke wu ihn in die Auge kumme is. 

No geht er nans un guckt am Haus in de heohe. No sehnt 

er was letz war. Die Ivy ware widder uf gewackse, am Haus 
un sin in der Schornshtai g’wackse un hen en zu g’shtopd as der 
Offe ken Draft g’hat hot. Ken Wunner hot er g’shmokd. Fer 
den Druwel los zu were hot er die Ivy-shetck raus g’grawe un 
ferbrent. 

Nau geht er dra un dhut sei Compound an die Ebbel-baem,awer 
er hot g’sad es w^erd net zu gud wan die Baem zu shtark wackse 
dhete. No macht er sei Compound just halwer so shtark. 

Die Baem sin grosser ware un ware meh frucht bar, awer die 
Ebbel ware jusht baut so gross wie Kersche. Awer es nachst 
Yohr dhut er sei Compound No. 2 an die Baem, no sin die 
Ebbel so gross ware wie Wasser-melone. Es hot ihn die Baem 
zamme g’broche. Es driet Yohr, hot er awer sei g’shtopd. 

Er hot nau en Compound wu die Baem gross un shtark ge- 
nunk macht fer Ebbel zu drage so gross wie Wasser-melone. 

’Sis awer g’ferhlich in seim Bungert zu sei wan die Ebbel 
zeitich sin. Wan sie em uf der Kop falle dhete, dan wais nie- 
mand eb sei net ’em sei Dot sei kent. 

Der Professor sagd es het niemand ken Business in seim Bun¬ 
gert un hot en Sign uf ‘‘Danger keep away.” 

Wie sie ihn g’frogt hen ‘‘Wie gross wackse die Baem wu die 
Compound hen? Sagd er, ‘‘Sie sin am wackse en dausend Yohre 
von heit, Es gebt die groeshte Baem in de Weld.” Es is nie¬ 
mand do as sage kan as es net so is, un weil der Professor schon 
anere grosse Dinge gedhu hot glabe die Leit was er sagd. 




MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


149 


DER FELSE UF ’N BERIG. 

Uf ’n Felse aid un gro’, 

Guck ich noch en Berig Bio’, 

Iwer’s County von Bauerei, 

Wie ’n quilter Oebich f’r mir leiye, 

Wu die Sun macht Seiss Perfume, 

An hawi-mache Zeit im lieblich June; 

Sie shprayed ihre Perfume uf’s nei Hawi; 

Un uf die Blume im wacksich Mawi. 

Die draueriche Weide im griene Schwam 
Henge die Kep die gatis zeit lang. 

Die Sun scheind a’ fer selle sort. 

Dock shtehne sie dort un drauere fort. 

In ihre Schatte do sin die Kieh, 

In de kiele Crick, 

Sie shtehne im Wasser bis an die Knee, 

Un schwenzle noch de Mick. 

Uf ’n Dam hucke weisse Gens, 

Mit de Schnewel im Dreck; 

Sie mache net ihre Lewe mit scharre, 

Awer mache’s mit de Kep. 

Ich hab gelebt in schoene Shtedt, 

An Rewere brait un dief, 

Wu koshbare Boats bluge’s Wasser, 

Un hen Music rohr un Siess. 

Es haimeld mich fer ’n glainer Shtrom, 

Wu la’ft von Berig im Dhal, 

Un dorich Schwem un Bisch, mabht sei Weg, 
In Yohre von alle Zahl. 




150 


MILLER’S PROSE AND VERSE 


In griene Bisch un wilde Bliit, 

Wu sanftlich peift der Biwie Lieb. 

Wu die Phersante schlage die Drum, 

Fer der wild Haas wu danzd dort rum, 

Die Crick lacht iwer Shtai im Weg 
Awer immer sucht en leichter Weg. 

Ich hab gelebt in grosse Shtedt, 

Mit Heiser dheuer un schoe; 

Mit griene Parks un Monuments, 

Von grosse glatte Shtai, 

Geb mir der Felse uf en Berig hoch, 

Wu mudderd sei Kinner wild, 

Der Fuchs, Haas, Katz un Bassum, 

Behiet er mit sei’m Schild. 

Uf n Berig wie ’n Gluck im Nesht, 

Im Busch wu briehd er shtill, 

Er gebt gud acht was unich ihn schlupt, 

Er is ’n Freind zum wild. 

Wan der Jaeger im frishe November,— 

Die nackiche Hecke un Felse rent er. 

Wan die Flint gracht un knalt, 

Un en Hauns sei Shtim im Busch schalt, 

Es schiend der Haas werd net aid, 

Er ferlossd sich uf sei Bai fer Helfe, 

Un schlupt in’s Loch am grosse Felse. 

Dort is wu er sagd, “gud nacht,” 

Zum Hauns un Jaeger uf de Jacht, 

Der Jaeger am Felse is uf de Knee, 

In sein’m Maul is duwaks Brei’, 

Der Hauns mit de Nass im grundich Loch, 
Schart, un blart, un schnart grad dort, 

Awer der Felse hebt die Haase hard. 







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